


A Target Disguised

by Jaicen5



Category: The Professionals
Genre: CI5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:18:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3590916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaicen5/pseuds/Jaicen5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man goes missing and Cowley is hindered in his investigation by a battle of the Docklands.  Throw in Marty Martell and Marge Harper and Doyle and Bodie really have their work cut out for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Target Disguised

_I do not own these characters nor claim any right to do so  
This fanfic is purely for entertainment purposes only_

 

 

PROLOGUE

Sirens split the air, loud, wailing, stomach clenchingly terrifying. Funny how the sirens were far more frightening than the threat itself, how that first strident wail could make her sick to the stomach with dread, knowing what was coming, but not knowing where, when, how long. How soon before the devastation began. Tonight they were close. Too close to get to the church cellar in time, too close to return to the wharfside pub, where her mother worked, caught, well and truly, out in the open. Despite the imposed blackout, London was eerily lit by the orange glow of still smouldering fires from the previous raids and she could see well enough as she stepped warily over debris littering the docks, guiding her mother and brother to the hiding place she had discovered as a young girl. 

“Hurry, Beth,” her mother gasped as the thrum of heavy aircraft began to permeate the air. 

The entrance was a long forgotten, well concealed hole by the wharf wall, and she had discovered it quite by accident, chasing an errant pup when she was just seven years old. She had never told anyone about the tunnels, liking with a child’s secretive joy, that they were hers and no one else’s. But she’d grown up since then, far quicker than any child should and this latest air raid had left them no time to find alternative shelter. 

Dropping into the narrow gap she reached up to take her small brother. He was whimpering softly, like a frightened puppy.

“Its all right Michael,” she soothed him, as her mother climbed down after her. “I’ve got you.”

Her mother peered into the darkness, past tangled tree roots and puddles left by filtering rain. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

She felt a slight annoyance at the ridiculous question, safer than outside in any case, bombs had started exploding, uncomfortably close, and she could feel the faint vibration from their impact through the soles of her shoes. She didn’t know how old the tunnels were, but guessed they hadn’t been used for hundreds of years. Likely wouldn’t have been used for another hundred either, if the Jerries hadn’t decided to concentrate on the docks in their bombing runs. They led off into darkness, further than she’d ever been brave enough to go, but she knew this section well.

“This way,” her fingers fluttered on the ledge by the broken entrance for the rusty lantern and the toffee tin that held her matches, items she hadn’t touched in over a year. They were old and familiar though, and cast an amber glow when lit that illuminated the roughly hewn stones that lined the tunnel. Holding the light aloft, she began to pick her way carefully through the damp darkness.

Outside the whine of a falling incendiary bomb was loud enough to be heard against the muffled booming coming from downriver and she froze for a moment in utter terror, knowing it was close, very close. Maybe too close. Then the world seemed to implode, the noise incredible, like a locomotive thundering through her skull, hurting her ears and she dropped the lantern, clapping her hands to the side of her head. The whole tunnel shook, stones shuddering and dropping, dust and earth filling the air, a whole section caving in. Dimly she heard her mother’s choked cries. 

_“Beth, Beth!”_

 

*** 

CHAPTER 1

The office was spartan, stark in its decoration and although it suited its owner, a man unaccustomed to unnecessary frippery, it contrasted sharply with the lovely features of the woman who looked after it so efficiently. Betty hadn’t been hired for her looks, but it didn’t hurt to have them, especially when facing some of the men she dealt with on a day to day basis, men who were hard and tough and had more sex appeal than was good for them. She had long since become accustomed to their competitive attempts to seduce her, suspected modestly that it was more to do with some sort of expected display of machismo than any real desire, and she entertained herself with different ways to deflect their charms and flirtatious invites. Two operatives in particular and her mouth twitched in fond amusement wondering, and not for the first time, which she’d choose if she ever decided to call their bluffs.

For the man currently in her waiting room, she could have been an aged hag for all the notice he had taken, although Betty wasn’t vain enough to be miffed, Nigel Groves wasn’t the sort of man to be swayed by her charms in the first place. She glanced over at him as he waited, perched on the very edge of the hardbacked chair, nervously clutching a leather briefcase full of papers, ready to spring up the minute he was summoned - a small, thin man with a receding hairline and thick wire rimmed glasses, looking every inch the accountant he was. It wasn’t the first time he’d sat in this office waiting and likely it wouldn’t be the last and she felt the usual surge of sympathy for his plight. 

Betty’s desk guarded the entrance to a closed interior office, but they could both hear well enough through the wood paneled door, it was hard not to, a Scottish voice, raised in peevish displeasure, shouting a one sided conversation into a telephone - something about an observation post that wasn’t manned during a crucial time. George Cowley could tear strips off a painted wall if he was so inclined. 

Groves flinched occasionally as the irate voice wound up the call but for the most part simply stared down at the worn leather of the briefcase, smoothing his thumb over the creases with a loving touch. Betty frowned at him as the tirade came to a halt accompanied by the slamming of a telephone receiver in its cradle. Nigel Groves wasn’t entirely himself today and she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Quickly she dialled through to her employer’s office before he could make another call. It didn’t take long to receive the answer she had expected.

“I’m sorry, Mr Groves,” she apologised in her professional manner. “But Mr Cowley has back to back appointments all afternoon and cannot squeeze you in. He suggests you go to the police with your information.”

“But you don’t understand,” Groves pleaded, clutching his briefcase tighter. “It’s imperative I see him, right now. It cannot wait.”

Betty shook her head firmly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“I don’t know who to trust at the Met,” Groves said, blinking back threatening tears. “Mr Cowley is the only man that I trust.”

Betty studied the anxious man. Nigel Groves was well known to her, he’d pop up on their doorstep from time to time, claiming to have vital information for CI5, and yet that vital information nearly always turned out to be mere conjecture, desperate guess work of an overactive, and grieving mind. Not this time though, this time he seemed different, in fact, if she were pushed to name what she sensed from his pleading gaze and rigid posture, she would have said he was frightened and Nigel Groves, for all of his varied emotional states on his previous visits, had never shown fear. 

Glancing at the closed door and then to the large diary in front of her, she made a decision. “Tell you what, I’ll pencil you in for tomorrow, two o’clock.”

Groves darted desperate eyes towards the office, where another one sided phone conversation had commenced and half rose to his feet. Betty deftly stepped between him and the door. “It’s the best I can do for you.”

Defeated, he stood, clutching his brief case tighter against his chest and it wasn’t until he turned away that Betty resumed her seat. She lifted the first piece of correspondence from her in-tray but her eyes followed the dejected figure as he left. Inside the office, the phone again slammed down onto the cradle.

***

George Cowley was a busy man. No nine to five job for him, his days invariably consisted of twelve to fourteen hour shifts, and even then, it wasn’t enough to clear the pile on his desk. CI5 was a small department, barely forty operatives at any given time and yet their workload seemed to grow larger and larger each year, as evidenced by the grumbling from his men with regards to non existent holidays and days off. Compounding this problem were the numerous requests by self important ministerial staff, who felt justified in demanding his operatives investigative skills to solve inconsequential happenings within their departments and the local met, who gleefully adhered to the fine print within CI5’s brief every chance they could, to divert difficult cases his way. 

He glanced at his watch. He had an appointment with the Chinese Ambassador and then dinner with the Foreign Secretary afterwards, time he really didn’t have. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should approach the Home Office with a view to expanding his brief, budget be damned. Leaving his desk, he moved across to retrieve his jacket from the coat rack. The dull afternoon light of an overcast March day penetrated the room and he loitered by the window as he shrugged into it, idly watching the passing traffic as he adjusted the lapels. 

A small, thin man appeared from the entrance to CI5’s headquarters and stood on the pavement, looking left and right as though unsure of his direction. He clutched a leather briefcase to his chest as though it contained all his worldly possessions. Cowley recognised Nigel Groves and empathy stirred. Groves had lost his only son to a heroin overdose five years previously and the shock of it had tested both his health and his sanity. The bereaved man had worked tirelessly ever since to put a stop to the trade, pouncing on half heard rumours and sly innuendo and bringing unproven conclusions to the attention of the authorities. His amateur sleuthing was exactly that and of no use to CI5, and probably not to the Met either.

“He was very agitated today,” Betty observed, coming in to tidy up the files in his out tray. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this persistent.”

“He would do better to leave investigating to the police,” Cowley remarked glancing at her as he straightened his tie. She was busy collecting the folders, balancing them against her hip. He watched her for a moment, making sure that she could manage before turning back to the window again, this time to observe two of his men approach the building from the direction of the car park. Fit, young, he instantly recognised the smooth dark hair of one and the wild abandoned curls of the other. They passed Groves as he stood hesitating near the bricked wall that separated the side of the building from the car park and Cowley saw Doyle pause, attention snared by the older man. Bodie, sensing his partner’s hesitation halted as well, half turning, but Groves, seemingly oblivious to their presence, finally shuffled off down the pavement that fronted the building. Bodie made an impatient gesture and with a last glance after the departing Groves, Doyle turned and followed his partner up the short flight of stairs to the front doors. 

Cowley’s interest piqued, momentarily wondering what had caught Doyle’s attention. Had an eye for trouble that one and Cowley had learned long ago to heed it. His men vanished into the building and Cowley’s eyes flicked back to Groves, a small dejected figure waiting at the pedestrian lights, hands thrust deep in his pockets. A dark grey car, a Granada by the look, pulled out of a parking bay and slowly drew up beside him and a head half leaned from the open window. Cowley frowned as he gave a final tug to his tie. Groves had hunched into his coat, leaning away from the car as though not wanting anything to do with it, or its driver.

“He kept saying he’d come across something big this time.” Betty commented, oblivious to the doings outside the window. “I’ve pencilled him in for tomorrow, sir, between the Minister and Major Thomsett.”

Cowley scowled, about to object but Betty had already left the office. He reached for his overcoat, just as Nigel Groves turned the corner at the end of the road shadowed by the dark grey car.

Betty stuck her head back in. “Your driver is ready, sir.”

Cowley turned away from the window, mind switching to his upcoming meeting.

Nigel Groves did not turn up for his appointment the next day.

***

CHAPTER 2

Bodie was, unsurprisingly, reading the newspaper when Cowley opened the door to the break room. Nobody took advantage of a break like Bodie. His feet were comfortably parked on the table, a cup of coffee sat beside him and his chair was tilted back, looking for all the world like nothing could move him for the rest of the afternoon. Cowley knew better, knew that, despite his solid muscular build, Bodie’s reflexes were lightening fast, knew that no matter how indolent he looked, Bodie could be on his feet, gun drawn in an instant, ready to tackle any threat with cold efficiency. Cowley glanced around the room, knowing that Doyle wouldn’t be far away and he wasn’t. His operative lay sprawled on the room’s only sofa, a cracked leather two seater that was markedly too small for him, eyes closed and chest moving regularly.

Cowley shot an enquiring glance in Bodie’s direction. Bodie shrugged and idly flipped the newspaper to the page three girl. “Knackered. He took Murphy’s shift as well as his own last night.”

“Aye.” But Cowley spoke quietly. Murphy was sick and he was short staffed as usual. “Did Smirchkoff show?”

“Not a peep,” Bodie’s approving eyes moved with quick efficiency over the near naked model. “Quiet as a graveyard.”

“Hmmm,” Cowley glanced idly at the paper as Bodie folded it in half and laid it aside, reaching instead for his coffee cup. The rumours about Smirchkoff appeared to be just that. Rumours. He was relieved. Another item crossed off his list. His mind on the Russian, he almost missed it. A small heading. Nigel Groves…. Missing… whereabouts…

Reaching out he swivelled the paper around, ignoring Bodie’s raised brow as the buxom page three girl came right side up in all her glory. His index finger slipped under the fold, opening it up completely and the report made more sense.

…Nigel Groves was last seen leaving work on the afternoon of the third of March. He is described as five foot six inches tall, thin build with grey hair and blue eyes. If anyone has any information on his whereabouts please contact….

A month ago. Cowley stared at the paper, Smirchkoff forgotten. A month ago, he had declined to see Nigel Groves in his office. On the afternoon of the third of March.

 

***

Guilt wasn’t an emotion that George Cowley habitually indulged in. It served little purpose in his line of work and was a hindrance to the hard decisions he had to make every day. But damn if that niggling at the back of his mind didn’t come close to it. Enough to upgrade the inconvenience that was Nigel Groves into a possible misjudgement, a man who had been declined help when he needed it. And Cowley felt the blame keenly. He didn’t shirk his responsibilities, nor did he take his position as chief of CI5 lightly and that faint niggle urged him to investigate the man’s disappearance. 

He made a few phone calls, made sure his operatives were out doing what they got paid for and, after cancelling his afternoon appointments, Cowley selected a car from the motor pool and drove himself to Southwark.

Shirley Groves was a diminutive woman, immaculately kept with work reddened hands and the careworn face that Cowley often saw in people who had suffered immense loss. The small front room to which she led him was covered in photographs of a handsome young man, longish fair hair and smiling brown eyes and it was clear what loss Shirley Groves still hadn’t recovered from. 

“Your son?” he asked gently, indicating the framed images before turning to study her more fully, observing the torn, conflicting emotions on her drawn features. Pride at her only child being academically gifted enough to be accepted into university warred with the guilt that the same event had introduced him to the substance that eventually led to his addiction and death. 

“Yes, that’s Matty,” she said, voice raspy as she absently straightened the lace doilies on the backs of the armchairs. “Like the song, aye? Matty Groves.”

Cowley nodded. It would surprise the more boisterous of his operatives greatly to learn that Cowley was fond of folk music, but then, he thought with an inward smile, many things about him would surprise his operatives a great deal.

Shirley Groves was looking up at the smiling portrait of her son, tears swimming in the brown eyes the young man had clearly inherited. “I can’t bear the song now. And it was a favourite, once.”

Cowley felt an immense pity for this woman’s grief. It saddened him to suspect that she was in for more of the same. “Tell me Mrs Groves. Do you know what your husband wanted to see me about?”

She stared at her hands, smoothing the doily over and over. “Oh you know Nigel. Matty’s death hit him hard. He needed someone to blame, some way to stop it. He saw it as his duty. He’d gone to the Drugs Squad, but they weren’t interested.”

“He found something out?”

“He didn’t tell me. He just said it was big. Bigger than anyone would ever guess. He said that the sort of people who preyed on weakness in others, well I’d just be amazed, he said.”

Cowley had long ceased being amazed himself. “Where do you suppose he came across this information?”

She shrugged thin shoulders, but the slim fingers continued fretting at the lace cloth. “I really have no idea, Mr Cowley, he’s not one for talking at the best of times, not now.” 

Cowley was silent for a minute, thinking of Nigel Groves and what may have happened to him. “Did he at any time feel threatened or harassed for having this information?”

The hands stilled their movement, and she clutched the back of the chair convulsively. “He didn’t say. He may not have told me if he had. He was always trying to protect me, stop me worrying. After Matty… well…”

He could see the denial in her posture, the way that she held herself rigid, not wanting to hear what she obviously thought he was going to tell her.

“There is always hope,” he told her gently. “Always.”

***

Nigel Groves worked as an accountant in a small office attached to the DHSS, a routine mundane job. On further investigation, Cowley discovered that, due to a lull in activity, several accountants had been seconded out to other departments. “Possible restructure,” the helpful woman on the other end of the phone had said. “He could be laid off permanently if they don’t find a place for him.”

Where exactly Nigel Groves had been seconded hadn’t been established. Cowley decided to find out. 

His intercom buzzed before he could make further calls, however, and he took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He glanced at his watch. It was late. Insistently his intercom buzzed again and he reached out to flick the switch. “Yes?”

“The Home Secretary, sir.” Betty’s crisp voice spoke tinnily through the speaker and Cowley wondered for a moment how she could sound so alert after such a long day.

“Put him through,”

“Sorry, sir, he’s actually not on the phone. He’s here in person. And wants to see you.”

Cowley stared in surprise at the speaker. Here? Without notice? The Minister had never before visited CI5 Headquarters, preferring that Cowley attend him in his more comfortable surroundings at the Home Office. Before he could answer, the door opened and he stood up hastily. 

The current Minister wore his years well, appearing a good five years younger than the sixty one on his passport. Urban and polished, his tailor made suit dressing a lithe trim figure, his salt and pepper hair only just starting to thin, he glanced around at the furnishings and without being invited headed to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a scotch.

“Minister,” Cowley murmured. “This is unexpected.”

“I have a job for you, George. One that I wish you to undertake personally.” 

*** 

Bodie was, for once, sharp and alert and it was Doyle who looked unnaturally tired when summoned the next morning. Cowley glanced suspiciously at his dark haired agent, sitting casually in the drivers seat, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the tune from the radio. It wouldn’t be the first time Bodie had skived off, leaving his conscientious partner holding up their end of the job but Bodie just gave him a singularly innocent look and nudged his teammate who jolted awake, rubbing knuckles across his eyes before pushing fingers tiredly through his wayward curls. Observing his boss approaching, Doyle stretched, yawning mightily before exiting the passenger seat of the Capri in order to tilt it back for Cowley to enter the rear. Cowley tried to recall the roster, an explanation for Doyle’s state but it proved elusive and he abandoned it in favour of the current situation. 

“Foreign Office, Bodie,” he commanded, settling himself in the back seat. 

Bodie started the car and pulled smoothly out into the traffic while Doyle put his foot up on the dashboard and leaned his head into the palm of his left hand, blinking at the rare sunny day outside.

“Nigel Groves,” Cowley began, opening his briefcase and extracting a photograph. “Accountant for the DHSS.”

Doyle reached behind and Cowley placed it into his questing fingers. 

“I’ve seen him before,” Doyle stated, tilting the photograph to his partner, who took his eyes off the road momentarily to glance at it. The dark head nodded in agreement before Bodie returned his gaze to the traffic.

“Aye, he’d visit from time to time, bringing useless information. His son died of a heroin overdose and Groves was determined to stop the trade.”

A faint derisive snort came from the front seat, although he wasn’t sure which had uttered it. Probably both. 

“He’s missing,” Cowley continued. “Disappeared without a trace.”

“If he’s sticking his nose into the heroin trade he might not reappear either,” Doyle said cynically, passing the photograph back. 

Cowley took it and glanced at it, a much younger Nigel, his hair not so wispy, the lines of strain around his mouth and eyes not as deep. 

That faint stab of guilt again, “Aye, you might be right there, as well.”

He saw Bodie’s eyes flick to him in the rear vision mirror, one eyebrow elegantly arched up in question. 

“He came to see me on the third of March, said he found something. Something big. I declined to see him.”

Doyle twisted around then, craning his neck to see him, eyes narrowing, “He’d done this before, though?”

“Yes,” Cowley looked out of the window, watched the London landscape pass by, people hurrying about their business, oblivious to the seedier side of the streets they walked upon. “Quite often. But this time it appears that whatever it was, whatever he’d found out, it wasn’t useless.”

“You mean you don’t know? Not even a hint?” Doyle asked impatiently and Cowley glanced heavenwards before bringing his attention back to his agents. Patience was not one of Doyle’s strong points, and it didn’t seem to improve, no matter how long he worked for this organisation. Bodie flicked his gaze sideways again, as though gauging his partner’s mood, but remained silent.

“No.” 

“But you do think that whatever he wanted to tell you, it was enough to have him targeted?” Doyle added, all traces of his earlier tiredness vanishing as natural curiosity sparked. 

Cowley smiled to himself. Give Doyle a puzzle and that excellent mind wouldn’t give up until he solved it. A good man, Doyle, despite his unpredictable temper and inconvenient conscience. He glanced at his dark haired operative who steadfastly kept his attention on the road. Bodie’s cool and calm ability to contain his partner’s insatiable curiosity and defuse his erratic outbursts was something Cowley had first doubted when pairing them, but the ex merc had surprised him on that one. 

“Possibly.” Cowley leaned back and glanced out of the window as Bodie turned into King Charles Street. “I want you two out on the streets, get in contact with your snitches and informers, find out what you can about where he’s been sticking his nose, who he’s upset, and in particular, where he is now.”

“What makes you think he heard it on the street?” Doyle queried. “Could’ve heard it anywhere. Pub, work… he worked for DHSS, you said?”

“Yes, except for the last couple of months. There’s been some restructuring and he’s been seconded to various other Government departments.” Cowley paused reflectively. It didn’t seem likely, given Groves’s position, for him to find anything in government accounts relating to heroin, but he’d seen stranger things. “I have Betty tracing them all.”

“Is that why we’re here?” Doyle asked, squinting up at the imposing building that housed the Foreign Office. “Did he work here?”

“No, this is another matter entirely.”

His men looked at each other, an unspoken communication that Cowley decided he didn’t want to interpret and then Bodie was swinging the wheel past a parked ministerial car, neatly slotting the Capri into a no stopping zone at the front entrance and pulling on the handbrake. Swiftly alighting from the vehicle, Doyle reached for the lever to tilt the seat forward, then stepped back in order to allow exit from the rear. Cowley had already inched forward, ready to clamber out, when a bright flash of light lit up the shadowed street, almost blinding him. Doyle abruptly disappeared, as though a giant hand had reached down and swept him away and Cowley had a split second in which his confused mind tried to rationalise the reason before the Capri tilted alarmingly, the back end skewing sideways accompanied by the shattering of the rear window over the back of his neck and head. The deafening boom came a second later, almost as an afterthought, but to someone who had fought in wars, Cowley knew instantly what it was. The resultant concussion flopped him back against the seat, glass sprinkling over his shoulders, dazed gaze on his remaining man, still in the car. An acute silence descended but he knew it was his own hearing at fault, the explosion close enough to rupture eardrums. He could see Bodie mouthing something, his face frantic, trying to untangle himself from the seat belt, which had somehow wrapped around his arm, impeding his exit from the drivers seat. Rarely did anyone see Bodie in such a panic and the urgency of his actions combined with Doyle’s abrupt disappearance, could only mean one thing. 

Cowley shook his head, splintered shards of glass falling from his collar and tie, his hearing still muffled. Heat enveloped the back of his head and he turned, struggling sideways to see. The parked car behind them was a fireball, orange flames fiercely burning, black smoke spiralling up into the blue of the sky. 

He felt a sudden, sickening fear for Doyle.

***

The ambulance seemed spacious after the cramped interior of the Capri and Cowley sat on one of the beds, allowing the myriad of cuts on the back of his head to be attended to. His hearing was still muted, but had come back sufficiently to hear the report from the uniformed officer attending the scene.

“The car belonged to the Ministry, sir,” he reported, consulting his notebook. “It was waiting for Miss Natasha De Souza, she had an appointment with the Columbian Consulate but fortunately was running late. The driver was just inside chatting to the security officer. He didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary.”

Cowley could see Bodie hovering by the door. He glanced at the ambulance officer behind him. “Have you finished?”

“Yes,” The man carefully stuck a plaster onto a still weeping cut on the back of his neck. “If you should develop any headaches, no matter how minor, I advise to get yourself checked out.”

“Aye, I will.” He got stiffly to his feet, collecting his coat from the bed, wondering if he was too old for this sort of caper. He stepped down from the back of the vehicle to see the bomb squad swarming around the still smoking wreck of the black official car. Bodie’s favoured motor had come off in somewhat better condition, only the smashed back window and some scratches and dents from flying metal but he could see his operative was unhappy at the damage. Bodie himself, had fared far better, not a scratch. 

He tilted his dark, sleek head towards the ruins still parked by the gutter. “Timed,” he said, “Could have been put there ages ago.” Footsteps sounded from behind and he turned his head fractionally, eyes raking his approaching partner. 

Cowley had seen that look many times before. Bodie was a hard case, he had to be, with the job he did, not to mention dubious activities in his prior life, but if he had a weak spot at all, it was his partner. Blue eyes scanned Doyle in that way he had, checking him over and then returned to Cowley, apparently satisfied with what he saw. “But whoever did it knew she was going to use it for her appointment. If she hadn’t been running late she would have been half way to the Embassy.”

“And would have taken out a dozen more people on the pavements with it,” Doyle added in disgust. 

Cowley faced his men. Bodie was gazing at the car, face blank, hands deep in his pockets, Doyle, somewhat worse for wear, clothes covered in dust, was staring at his hands. The blast had literally picked him up and flung him along the pavement, he’d skinned both palms badly and torn the knees of his jeans, but his operative had typically disregarded his injuries in order to investigate the scene and his heavily bandaged hands were stained red with blood, and smeared black with soot. Cowley gave him a shrewd look, remembering Bodie’s near desperate attempts to get free of the car to help his partner, an indication, if he’d needed it, of how bad it must have appeared during the explosion. But Doyle, resilient as always, had rolled clear, groggy but relatively unharmed. 

“Where is Miss De Souza now?” he asked, satisfied with Doyle’s health, not so much from his own assessment, but rather from Bodie’s, who knew his partner far better than Cowley ever could. 

“Inside, with a fortifying cup of tea,” Bodie said, and sniffed, raising one eyebrow, which knowing Bodie could indicate anything from derision to admiration. Cowley chose not to try and decipher it this morning. Whatever Bodie thought of the lady in question, and Bodie had a wealth of knowledge about all women, it didn’t alter that fact that someone had put a bomb in her car.

He decided to let her settle down for a bit, instead moving to the wreck to speak with the bomb disposal unit. Ken McManus showed him a substantially melted piece of black casing. “Three pounds of plastic, simple timer,” he said. “Nothing fancy, just a big boom.”

The car itself was a smoking ruin of its former self, the rear doors ripped completely off, the back seat a charred twisted frame of blackened metal. 

“She was lucky,” McManus observed. “No one would have got out of that alive.”

The driver was a trembling mass of nerves by the second ambulance. “I could have been in it,” he moaned shakily, trying and failing utterly to light a badly rolled cigarette. “I mean who’d want to… why? I’ve got a wife, kids, a dog. I only stepped out for a fag ‘cause she was running late.” He gave up on the cigarette and passed a hand over his eyes. “The wife’s always on at me to give ‘em up, they’ll kill you, she says.” He held up the mangled stub of tobacco and paper. “Kill me? It saved my bleedin’ life.” 

“Where was the car kept before you took it for today’s job?” Cowley asked.

“In the garage under the building,” he gestured unsteadily with his hand. “Been there since yesterday when I brought her back from her meeting with Customs officials.”

“Who has access to the garage?” 

“Who? Everyone who works here.” The man wiped his eyes and stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth, where bits of tobacco fell out. “Not as if we’re bleeding MI5, there’s a lift from the lobby, security on the gate. Staff park their own cars there.”

Cowley looked at the doors of building, thinking. Bodie was still by his side, but Doyle was talking to the doorman. “I think it’s time we had a chat with Miss De Souza, Bodie.”

The staff canteen was just inside the doors and was heavily populated by the building’s workers, all morbidly craning to see the wreck of the vehicle outside. A uniformed policewoman stood by a set of stairs that led to the cloakrooms. Cowley showed her his ID. “Where is Miss DeSouza?”

“She’s up there, sir,” she replied, indicating the stairs. “Shall I fetch her for you?” 

“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind,” Cowley removed his overcoat, the canteen was warm after the fresh air outside. He could smell coffee and sausage rolls, overlaid with the odour of cigarettes. Bodie shifted beside him, his attention moving unerringly to the source of the food. He glanced sideways at his agent, certain that Bodie had hollow legs.

The clicking of high heels on the parquetry stairs and the descent of a very shapely pair of legs in sheer black stockings announced the arrival of Miss Natasha De Souza. Cowley took in the nyloned legs and noticed Bodie hadn’t missed them either, since his attention had instantly snapped back from the canteen and its promise of nourishment, expression neutral but for a slight admiring tilt to his lips. A right ladies man, Bodie, Cowley knew, matched only in numbers and predatory skill by his partner. Chalk and cheese, they nevertheless attracted a good number of women between them. 

Miss Natasha De Souza looked to be in her mid thirties, slim and attractive. Her hair was blond, dyed if Cowley was any judge but surprisingly, it complemented her striking dark eyes and brows. She wore a simple white blouse and a grey skirt, a matching jacket over one arm, her only adornment a rather heavy gold crucifix around her neck. She looked as cool as a cucumber.

“Miss De Souza?” he stepped forward and she nodded cordially in response. If the bombing of her car had rattled her, there was no evidence in the calm face before him. “You’ve had a nasty shock.”

“Perhaps not as much as you.” 

Oh yes, cool as a cucumber. Cowley studied her with interest, but then she blinked and looked away and he thought that perhaps she was not as composed as she first appeared.

“You are Mr Cowley?” At his nod, she held out her hand. “I am confused, does your department normally deal with bombs?” 

She had no accent, for all her exotic looks, voice low pitched and pleasant. Cowley took her hand. “My department, Miss De Souza, deals with anything and everything that I deem fit. If you don’t mind, I would like to ask a few questions.”

“Of course,” her eyes flicked past him, expression approving and Cowley knew, without looking, that Bodie was turning on his considerable charm. With a small exhale of annoyance, he instead took her arm to guide her to the small security office by the door. “Where were you when the car exploded?”

“In my office, I was delayed slightly, a file I could not immediately locate. It proved fortunate.” She took the seat indicated and crossed her long nylon encased legs, still looking past his shoulder at Bodie. 

“Indeed. And where is your office?”

A slight frown dinted those finely shaped eyebrows. “On the third floor. Mr Cowley, surely you aren’t investigating me?”

“Just routine, Miss De Souza,” he turned slightly, “Bodie...” and the presence obediently left his shoulder. Deprived of the distraction of his good looking operative, she now gave him her full attention. 

“Who do you think would do this? Do you have enemies? Someone holding a grudge?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Of course not. I cannot imagine why anyone would do something like this. I mean there are always those who are unhappy with the decisions my office makes, although it is quite unlikely it would extend to this level.”

“The Minister seems to think it would.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He requested that I come to see you. You told him that you thought someone had followed you home, did you not?” 

“Oh, I see, yes. We were at a function recently and the topic of security came up. I mentioned it in passing, but didn’t think for a minute that he would remember, never mind act upon it, as the incident occurred some time ago.”

“But you did think someone had followed you?” Cowley persisted.

“I wasn’t sure,” she answered politely. “He could simply have been taking the same route as I. I did tell the Minister that and if it happened again, I would tell the police. I’m sure it cannot possibly be connected to placing a bomb in my car.”

“You don’t seem particularly distressed about the incident,” he pressed, unsure of whether she was putting up a brave front, or that she really was as cool as she appeared.

“I don’t scare easily,” she snapped with a defiant air.

Perhaps not. Still it wasn’t every day someone tried to kill you either. Cowley remained silent, watching her and she blinked again, glancing away and then back again, spoiling the calm exterior once more. 

“You had an appointment at the Colombian Embassy?” 

She agreed readily, confirming the policeman’s enquiries. “Yes, with the Ambassador regarding trade sanctions.” She glanced at her watch, an expensive Rolex, chunky gold on her slim wrist. “And I am very late. “

Cowley was surprised. “You still intend to go?”

“I won’t be intimidated by some cowardly maniac who plants bombs in cars.”

Her bravado impressed him, however her safety was more important. “I think it would be wise to cancel your appointments for the rest of the afternoon. The bomber could well try again. In the meantime I will arrange for extra security.”

“Is that really necessary?” A slight annoyance now. “It may not have been targeted at me specifically, Mr Cowley, perhaps the IRA just chose a random car in the garage.”

“What makes you think that it was the IRA?” He was intrigued.

“Well,” for the first time she faltered. “Who else could it be?”

Who else indeed? It was something he aimed to find out. He glanced out of the window where the investigative team were still swarming by the wreckage. “Just curious, Miss De Souza. How is it that you have a ministerial car?”

She frowned. “It is on loan to me. It wasn’t assigned and was available, so I took advantage of the offer.”

“Indeed,” Cowley looked at her again, at her posture, her crossed legs, the skirt riding just above her knees, her abundance of blond hair. A woman quite aware of her own attractiveness and not above using it either. He had come across such women before now. “And who loaned you this car?”

Now she looked uncomfortable. “The Home Office if you must know. Mr Cowley,” she hesitated slightly, that vulnerable look coming back into her eyes. “You don’t think that the bomber may have been after someone from the Home Office? Someone who generally uses the car?”

“That remains to be seen,” Cowley answered gravely.

Miss De Souza had little more to offer him, and after using the office phone to arrange a guard for her, he returned to the still smoking wreck outside.

A tow truck had arrived to take the damaged Capri back to the CI5 motor pool for repair, Bodie watching disconsolately from the sidelines.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Doyle was saying, patting his partner’s shoulder awkwardly with his bandaged hand. “A bit of spit and polish, she’ll be good as new in no time.”

“Better not be Dowd,” Bodie said darkly. “I wouldn’t put my mum’s Morris in his hands.”

“Well, you could always borrow that instead.” Doyle said and grinned at him. 

“Doyle, Bodie.”

They both turned at his summons and walked over immediately. He raised a brow in Bodie’s direction.

“Clean, sir,” Bodie reported. “Whoever he was, he only targeted the car, not her office.”

“I think we need to look a bit more into Miss De Souza’s background.” Cowley mused. 

***

“Age thirty-five, single, her father is Francisco De Souza, a Columbian politician,” Doyle read from a report covered in untidy pencilled scribbles. “Mother, Elizabeth Anne De Souza, nee Collins was British. They met while he worked for the Columbian Embassy here, married just seven months before Natasha was born, then divorced two years later when he was recalled back to Columbia. Moved around a lot as a kid until, at age thirteen, she went to live with her father in Columbia, stayed there for five years or so to finish school before returning to Britain when her mother became ill, securing a job first at Oxfam, then Foreign Aid Abroad, before applying to the Foreign Office. Her brief is small, and deals mainly with helping disadvantaged countries by opening trade agreements. She’s politically ambitious, been a member of the conservative party for approximately a year and is running for the local council seat of Tower Hamlet, he died didn’t he, old Morrison?” he looked briefly in Bodie’s direction but at the baffled shrug and the murmured “1971 in a Paris bathtub, so I heard,” rolled his eyes and returned to his narrative, “She’s fluent in Castilian and Spanish. No arrests, convictions or anything to warrant a bomb being placed in her car.” 

Cowley leaned back in his chair as Doyle came to the end of the report, and stood staring at it a moment longer. 

“Is that all?” 

His operative shook himself slightly, curls dancing across the collar of his leather jacket. Too long for Cowley’s liking, but he knew the length was an advantage when Doyle was required to go undercover. 

“Well, yeah…” Doyle was still frowning at the report. “A little squeaky clean if you ask me.”

“How do you mean?” Cowley got up from his desk and walked to the window. Bodie leaned back his chair and folded his arms, listening. 

“Well,” Doyle placed the file carefully on the desk and looked up, tilting his head and giving a small shrug. “Not a single thing, no wild parties, no cannabis in the hallways, no shady boyfriend.”

Cowley raised a questioning brow. “You think there should be?” 

“Columbia, sir? Drug capital of the world? Young girl, wealthy father.”

“Right old Tory, then,” Bodie muttered. 

***

CHAPTER 3.

 

The staff canteen was its usual crowded chaos when Murphy stuck his head in. Although enticed by the gastronomic odours, his gaze passed over visiting police, office workers and maintenance staff and settled on a table by the window where Doyle and Bodie had taken advantage of its proximity to a group of young policewomen. Typical, never pass up an opportunity, that pair. He wandered over, threw an engaging smile to the table of women and snagged a spare chair as he passed. 

Placing it between his fellow agents, he took a moment to gaze at the two plates, both of which were placed in front of Bodie, and both containing the special of the day, steak and chips. Doyle, looking thoroughly fed up, was watching his partner who was industriously employed in cutting one of the meals into manageable bite sized pieces. 

“A call came in,” he said by way of greeting and nicked a chip from one of the plates. 

“Oi,” Bodie protested, “Buy your own.”

Murphy grinned at him, “Got plenty there, how many do you want?”

“Ha ha, what’s that you’ve got then?” He finished slicing the meat and pushed the plate over to Doyle, who picked his fork up awkwardly with his bandaged hand and unsuccessfully stabbed at one of the pieces.

“One of Doyle’s, he’s given an address,” Murphy nodded at Doyle and passed over the written message. “Hands still bothering you then?”

“Only when he has to use them,” Bodie said caustically and shoving three chips into his mouth at once, picked up his cutlery ready to start on his own meal.

“Ernie Jackson,” Doyle read the handwritten note. “A tip off. A pool hall on Thursday, just after lunch, he says.”

“Well at least you have a couple of days,” Murphy said and stood up. “The steak any good?” 

“Wouldn’t know,” Doyle said heavily, as his fork slipped from his fingers with a clatter.

 

***

“Twenty four hour body guard, George,” The Minister’s voice echoed down the phone, irritation plain in the abrupt tones. “This person must be caught. I can’t have ministerial cars being blown up on some maniac’s whim.”

“I understand, sir,” Cowley tried to placate the man. “I’ve put some of my best men on the job.”

“No, you George, I want you on it. I want you to personally take responsibility for her safety.”

Agitated. He’d never heard the man this agitated before. Cowley glanced at Betty, who was bringing in a tea tray. 

“Have you any idea at all, who could be responsible?”

“Not at the moment,” Cowley accepted the cup Betty passed to him. “Possibly the IRA, although it’s not their style.”

“So it could happen again? To anyone. I mean… if it’s not a personal attack?”

“Yes.” 

“Then what do you suggest?”

Cowley strongly wanted to suggest the man have stiff scotch and a lie down, “I don’t have the manpower to watch every government vehicle, sir, but I have asked the Met to help out.”

“Good, good, but I want CI5 personally to oversee Miss De Souza until this bomber is caught.”

Cowley jerked the handpiece away from his ear at the abrupt disconnection. Betty laid a list on his desk as he replaced the receiver on its cradle. 

“The list of departments that Nigel Groves was seconded to,” she announced.

Cowley scanned the list, mind automatically adjusting from potential bombers to the missing accountant. Nigel Groves had spent one month in the Home Office, eight weeks in the Northern Ireland Office and one week in the Department for Health. None looked promising as a source for drug supplying. It was more likely that Groves had picked up something on the streets, rather than at work, and this list seemed to confirm it, his eyes scanned the dates pencilled in brackets next to the departments. “Where are Doyle and Bodie?”

“Doyle got a lead from one of his informers, they went off to investigate it.”

 

*** 

“How do you know this one, then?” 

Doyle was driving, although in hindsight, it probably wasn’t such a good idea. His hands were still bandaged, and he grimaced every so often as the wheel slid across the healing grazes. Bodie leaned back in the passenger seat and looked at his partner. Doyle’s hair was blown into tight tangles by the open window, his posture an easy sprawl behind the wheel and he negotiated the traffic in his usual competent fashion despite his damaged palms.

“When I was with the Yard, he used to throw me a tip every so often. Works at a club, high class girls, high class crooks.”

“Your former years never cease to amaze me.” Bodie said in a bored tone and saw those expressive eyes flick to him, a corner of the full lips quirking. He sniffed dismissively. “Anyway, if you know this bloke’s an assassin, why isn’t he behind bars?”

“Because we couldn’t get any evidence against him.” Doyle retorted. “He’s clever is Vinnie, covers his tracks, always has an alibi. But if he’s around, people tend to disappear and this Groves that the old man’s all worked up about has disappeared.”

“So you think he’s been hired by someone high up in the heroin trade?”

The leather clad shoulders shrugged. “Dunno, that’s why we’re going to talk to him. See what he knows about either Nigel or Matty Groves.”

“There’s this song, you know,” Bodie stated conversationally. “A folk song called Matty Groves… it was a big hit in this club when I was very young. The bird that sang it… can’t think of her name, big smoky eyes and white lipstick and legs that went right up to her mini skirt. A right looker, she was.” He paused, eyes closed in fond memories. “She used to do the club circuits. There was this party of Scotsmen one night, I swear one looked just like Cowley…”

“Cowley won’t know any folk songs,” Doyle scoffed, not rising to the bait. He slowed the vehicle at a pedestrian crossing where a harassed looking woman was dragging a screaming kid across the road and sat waiting, rubbing his index finger across his bottom lip. Bodie inwardly hunched, recognising the signs of a Doyle ready for conjecture but his partner surprised him, changing subject with mercurial swiftness. 

“What’s she like, then?”

“She?” Bodie’s mind was still on the mini skirted singer whose name he couldn’t remember.

“Natasha De Souza,” Doyle elaborated flooring the accelerator once the road was clear. “Her file picture looked all right. For a Tory.”

Bodie slanted a sly look to his partner. “Pictures can be misleading. She’s a woman of the world. Far too experienced for a young lad like yourself. She needs a man of the world.”

“A man like you, you mean?”

“I can only offer my humble services,” Bodie proclaimed innocently, but he smirked all the same. “Besides which, I saw her first.” 

A slow grin spread across Doyle’s face, the sort of grin that told him that Doyle would take that with a pinch of salt should it suit him and then his partner was spinning the wheel to the left, bringing the car neatly to a halt in a no parking zone. “Here we are, now behave yourself.”

“Eh?” Bodie gave his partner a look of baffled confusion. “When have I never?”

Doyle didn’t answer, just flexed his hands a couple of times before turning them over and considering them. Bodie waited patiently as his partner then pulled his Walther from his holster, hefted the weapon, wrapped his fingers around the handle, settling the butt into his palm. His finger rested on the trigger as he let the weight pull against the healing scabs. 

“Ok?” Bodie asked, raising a brow enquiringly.

Doyle pursed his lips and shrugged. “I’ll do. Expect not to use it anyway.” 

He exited the car with agile ease and led the way to a heavy glass door covered in a protective wire mesh. Bodie gazed up at the grimy artwork covering the brickwork. Images of green felted pool tables surrounded by elegant people in outdated fashions, faded now, sad, tattered remnants of a bygone era, a once promising neighbourhood now reduced to slums. He looked up and down the litter filled street and raised a sardonic eyebrow. 

Doyle smiled at him and pushed the door open.

***

Vinnie Carter was large brutish man with a head of spiky coarse black hair and a nose that had been broken more than once. That was okay according to Vinnie, though, he always said it matched his teeth. Contrary to his thuggish appearance however, he was anything but slow witted and had learned early in his career how to do his job without the inconvenience of being arrested. Oh they’d tried. Still tried. But they’d never been able to pin a thing on him. Vinnie was smugly confident they never would either. It was all in the know how. Know the right people, know the right jobs. Made all the difference in his line of work, couldn’t afford to be careless. Not when half a dozen coppers were always ready to pounce the minute he let his guard down. Accustomed as he was, therefore, to constant police harassment, he wasn’t at all surprised to see two men appear in front of the pool table, where he was about to sink the blue ball in the corner pocket. He was, however, surprised to find one of them an old adversary. 

“Detective Constable Doyle,” he drawled, settling back against the table and tilting his glass in a careless salute. “You’re looking well.”

Doyle didn’t answer, merely stared at him with unforgiving eyes, a disconcerting habit that Vinnie found very effective. Then again, he found most of Doyle’s intimidating tactics effective. Particularly the way his appearance hid the street smart, hard core of the man. And the way that hard core could explode into lethal capability with the smallest provocation. 

Vinnie didn’t allow himself to relax, not around this man, not since that raid in ’75. The thick fingers of his right hand rubbed reminiscently at the noticeable bump on the bridge of his nose, the end result, along with a black eye, of the first time he’d underestimated Doyle’s slim build and pretty looks. 

He hadn’t done so again, not physically, not mentally either. Doyle had a rare intelligence to go with that deceptive physique and he’d concluded very early on that if anyone in the entire Met had the ability to get him put away, it just might be this one. And nothing since had changed his mind. He watched his adversary warily, Doyle as edgy and unpredictable as ever, half hearted thoughts to permanently ridding himself of this nuisance once and for all flicking randomly through his mind. One day, he promised himself, blithely ignoring the fact that he’d been saying it for years. One day... 

Doyle wasn’t alone this time, accompanied instead by a far more solid companion, dark haired and dark eyed. Had a decent build, this one, Vinnie could see the strength of his arms and legs through his expensive clothes, his torso hard and muscled. He looked Vinnie up and down, expression cold and mean, and then moved dismissively across to the bar, signalling to Maisie behind it for service. Vinnie didn’t like the look of him. Then again, he didn’t like the look of Doyle either. 

His drinking companions clearly didn’t know Doyle. And even more stupidly, didn’t see past his appearance to his capability. They stood around the table, glowering at the interruption to their game of pool, sliding bruised fists up and down their cues, spoiling for a fight. Vinnie chose not to enlighten them. Playing fair didn’t come into the equation when dealing with Doyle and he’d take any advantage he could. 

Doyle finally sniffed and glanced around the room. To anyone else, it was a casual sweep of the area, but Vinnie knew better. Doyle had an uncanny ability for sensing trouble and he would have marked the position of any threat he identified. 

Still in the dark as to what the detective wanted and knowing full well he wouldn’t be enlightened until Doyle was good and ready, he gestured with his glass towards the bar. “Who’s your mate?”

Doyle glanced nonchalantly behind him with the astonished air of discovering someone he’d misplaced. “Him? That’s Bodie.” 

Vinnie looked at Doyle guardedly, then at his mate up at the bar, his back to the action, to all intents and purpose completing ignoring the conversation behind him, but Vinnie wasn’t fooled. The slight angle of the dark head, the tenseness of that powerful body. He wasn’t interfering, but he wasn’t quite ignoring it either. That he thought Doyle entirely capable of holding his own, just made Vinnie more wary. 

Thankfully, Doyle finally got to the point. “Where were you on the third of March?”

Vinnie strove for a bored calmness. “Third of March?” Scratching his head for added effect he added, “Dunno, might have to check with me secretary for that one.”

“Vinnie,” Doyle leaned forward, placed both hands on the edge of the table. “Vinnie, Vinnie, Vinnie.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue as though Vinnie was merely a disappointing wayward child. “My source says you arrived in London on the second. From Portugal. You arrived in London on the second and you can’t remember what you did on the third? So, either you’re hiding something, or you’re lying to me. Which is it?”

The men around him were starting to make threatening movements with their pool cues. 

Doyle appeared unbothered, picking up a ball and examining it. At Vinnie’s silence he looked up, one brow raised questionably, “Or I could just take you in.” 

Vinnie let a sneer cross his face. Copper or not, he knew the drill. “On what charge?”

“Don’t need a charge. Haven’t you heard? With a new mob now, and we don’t follow the rules.”

Maisie, who was in the act of pushing a beer across to the other half of this unwelcome visitation, was looking worried. “Here, aren’t you going to do something?”

“Well, usually I’m not that easy,” Bodie drawled back, flipping a Heineken coaster through his fingers. “But I can always make an exception. Write your phone number down there then, love, and I might give you a call on the weekend.”

She gave an exasperated huff and nodded to the pool table. “I’m talking about your mate. He might be in a spot of bother.”

“Doyle?” He half twisted to see for himself and tilted his head speculatively. “Why? There’s only three of them.” 

***

The drive back to headquarters was done mostly in silence, Vinnie Carter a sullen slump in the back seat cuffed to the strap above the door. An ambulance had been called for the other pool players. 

Well, Doyle had warned them, Bodie had heard him fair and square, as he reminded those still capable of hearing in the aftermath. Not that they had believed Doyle at first. He couldn’t in all honestly blame them, he’d made the same mistake himself when first partnered with Doyle with pretty much the same result. In fact Bodie had needed two or three lessons before he’d finally acknowledged that Doyle was far more dangerous than he looked. This lot were no better and the fight was inevitable. He’d made no move to assist Doyle, despite Maisie’s fear and pleas, simply kept one eye out for hidden weapons and finished his pint. 

The first thug had pushed past Carter raising his pool cue like a club. Doyle had simply snatched it from his grasp and at the same time swung his right fist, still holding the pool ball, straight into the side of his head with a sickening impact. The thug went down instantly and Doyle followed through without pausing, smashing the pool cue on the edge of the table with considerable force, splintering it in half. He’d raised the jagged end threateningly, eyes narrowed, teeth barred. The second man, with evidently more alcoholic bravado than common sense, ignored it, surging forward and the jagged end of the cue ripped across his face viciously. Doyle had turned speedily to Carter then, ducked the swinging fist and stepped closer, holding the bloodied jagged end to his throat, his left fist in Carter’s collar. “Give over Vinnie, before somebody gets hurt.”

He’d given over, a little too easily if Bodie thought about it, but steadfastly remained uncooperative. He pondered this, could see Doyle’s eyes flicking to the rear vision, obviously with the same thoughts. Vinnie Carter didn’t look like a worried man. Which either meant he didn’t do anything, or he had a watertight alibi.

Pulling into the carpark at headquarters, though, had Vinnie coming rather sharply to life. He looked uneasily out of the window and then leaned forward. “What mob did you say you are with?”

“I didn’t,” Doyle replied cheerfully, pulling on the handbrake. 

*** 

George Cowley was feeling a little thwarted. So far, despite his digging, nothing had come up in relation to either of the cases thrust unexpectedly into his lap. Natasha De Souza was perhaps the more baffling of the two, after all, a missing man in the drug trade could be nigh on untraceable in the right circumstances, although he was hopeful that Doyle’s informant had something for them to go on. But no one, so far, had come forward to claim responsibility for the bomb, nor issue any demands for the prevention of another one. This wasn’t normal and it certainly counted out the IRA. 

Several minor groups with grudges were examined, but none were the type to remain quiet. Cowley considered several possibilities. It could, as the lady had pointed out, be a random attack on a Government vehicle, but he somehow doubted it. There were better places and people to make that sort of statement. It was more likely to be a specific attack on Miss De Souza, but nothing so far in her brief warranted such action. Perhaps something in her personal life then, a jilted lover, a jealous rival, an envious acquaintance - even if planting a bomb in her car was a little extreme. And a bomb required a bombmaker, not exactly the sort of person that moved in Miss De Souza’s circles. Then there was the Minister’s personal interest, which was slightly out of the ordinary as well. 

Cowley was pondering that angle while signing expense chits, when a sharp rap on the door interrupted his mental arithmetic of the badly scrawled list of costs incurred by Anson the week before. He glanced up, removing his glasses to see the door swing rather forcibly open and a thuggish man stumble forward, as though pushed non too gently from behind. Cowley stood up, instantly on guard as the man glowered at him from under thick black brows, his ugly face twisted with loathing but before he could respond to the intrusion Doyle appeared, sauntering casually past the door frame and flashing a cherubic smile in his direction. 

He gave a slight tilt of his head to the thug. “Vinnie Carter. Hit man. Can’t quite remember what he was doing on the third of March.”

Bodie followed his partner in, shut the door and leaned back, folding his arms. He smiled brightly at Vinnie. “Although I’m sure he’d remember with a bit of persuasion.” 

 

***

CHAPTER 4.

 

Melissa Simms fed a crisp white sheet into the typewriter and rolled the drum to align it with the guides. Satisfied, she lifted the pile of handwritten notes alongside her desk, looking for page two of the proposal for funding to assist with education in Ecuador. Melissa liked her job, liked her boss, Miss De Souza was very nice and very smart, and in the six months that Melissa had worked for her, had only ever seen her lose her temper once and in that case, in her opinion, it was entirely justified. She hummed softly to herself as she searched for the required page of notes. Proving elusive she frowned, scanning the cluttered desk before leaning to the stack of trays behind her, knocking over her cup of tea with her elbow as she half turned. With a startled oath, she bent quickly to retrieve it before the contents spilled over the carpet. And the window behind her abruptly exploded into a million shards of glass. Melissa fell off her chair in fright, bringing her hands up and over her head. The glass continued shattering accompanied by a faint rattling noise and in the dim recesses of her mind, she realised it was gunfire. It stopped as abruptly as it started but she didn’t stop screaming until hands pulled her up to her feet and out of the room. 

***

“The flying squad,” Cowley snorted in disgust, entering his office, loosening his tie and, changing his mind half way to his desk, veered instead to the drinks cabinet. Doyle and Bodie followed him in, the latter shutting the door before moving to the window. 

“What would a hired hit man be doing, having drinks with Special Branch?” Doyle snorted derisively. 

“More’s the point, what is the flying squad doing having drinks with a hired hit man,” Cowley corrected, reaching for the single malt.

“It’s still an alibi,” Bodie argued, happily watching his boss pour a dash of whisky into three glasses. “For whatever reason, he was with them, not out murdering Nigel Groves.”

“Unless they’re lying,” Doyle stated in a hard voice. 

Cowley looked over his shoulder at his operatives. Doyle had been a good copper, a conscientious copper. Even after several years with CI5, it still galled him to learn of new corruption in the Met. Bodie, on the other hand, had no such scruples. 

“Well it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” he remarked, clearing his throat meaningfully as Cowley made no move to offer them the poured scotch. “Detective Chief Superintendent Drury, anyone?”

“Operation Countryman cleared that lot out.” Cowley mused, turning finally and holding out a glass to each operative. “And why would they lie? Why would the flying squad defend an assassin, what would be in it for them?”

“In that case, he’s telling the truth and it’s not him.” Bodie summarised, holding his glass up to the light to admire the hue of the liquor. A hard man, Bodie, and in most things as uncomplicated as Doyle was complicated. An idealist, Doyle viewed the world through his conscience, in shades of grey, whereas Bodie’s was far more pragmatically black and white. Revenge or indifference, it all came down to loyalty with Bodie and there was little room for doubt or second chance. It was one of the things that had rubbed the wrong way when he’d first partnered them and still could to a degree. It fascinated him, even more so Doctor Ross, not least because they had somehow not only overcome their vastly different personalities, but had managed to balance them to work effectively together. 

Cowley glanced at Doyle who had stalked to the filing cabinet and now leaned on it, rubbing an index finger reflectively across his lower lip. He valued Doyle’s copper nose, trusted it and Doyle had brought Vinnie Carter in. “Doyle?”

“Vinnie fits,” Doyle said, almost to himself. He turned to face his boss. “He’s good, he’s expensive. Only the big boys can afford him, the ones with money, the ones that want to eliminate a threat with nothing to tie them to it. When I was with the yard, there was this informer. He’d been set on testifying against his boss who was in it up to his eyeballs in fraud and money laundering. He told us that he had evidence to support his claim, but before we could get to him, he disappeared. Just like that. We never found him, never found the evidence and the whole case was dropped. Vinnie had been seen with his boss just the day before. It’s not the only time either, perhaps a dozen more similar instances I could name, but we can’t pin him. He’s good is Vinnie.”

“So good that everyone seems to knows he’s a hitman,” Bodie drawled provokingly. “But no one seems to be able to bring him to justice.”

Doyle gave his partner a dirty look. “Oh he’s an hitman all right. We got word from a dozen or so different witnesses. But they were all as crooked as him, or worse. Unreliable witnesses, according to the courts and that lot wouldn’t testify anyway. Nah… it was up to us to catch him in the act, and we never did.”

“So the flying squad is either protecting him, or they are in on it, whatever it is.” Cowley mused, anger coiling as he thought of Shirley Groves work worn hands smoothing the lace doilies on her furniture.

Before either man could answer, a brief knock at the door announced Betty, who stuck her head in, a piece of paper in hand. “This has just come in from the Foreign Office, sir.”

***

Red eyes and a swollen face should have been the least of her worries, but absurdly, all Melissa Simms could think of, was how much of a mess she looked right now. Right when these two very attractive men were searching through the office and she should be looking the best she could. Stifling a sob, she watched miserably as the curly haired man with the patched, impossibly tight jeans leaned to look at the bullet riddled wall in front of her desk. The action stretched the denim even tighter across his lean backside and she wiped her eyes furiously in an attempt to clear moisture from them. His hand rucked up the leather of his jacket slightly to rest on his hip as he twisted, giving her a cautious look before gesturing to his companion with a tilt of his head. His companion, a man with dark hair and wide shoulders under a heavy canvas jacket came over to study the wall alongside him, heads bent together as they conversed quietly. 

Melissa thought about her ruined mascara and sniffed loudly. Of all days to have a red, blotchy face.

Miss De Souza squeezed her shoulders reassuringly as Mr Cowley made her go over the whole incident again. Haltingly, she did so, encouraged by his kind manner. Everyone was being very kind and it made her teary all over again. Quickly she wiped her eyes, glancing once more at the two men by the wall, although their attention remained on what they were doing, which was poking something into one of the bullet holes and she realised with a small spurt of indignation that it was the engraved silver pen, a present from her father, that they’d somehow, without her noticing, pinched off her desk. 

“You still think it’s a random attack?” Mr Cowley asked her boss.

Slightly miffed by their lack of anything remotely resembling sympathy Melissa half listened to the conversation behind her while trying to decide which of the two men was the more attractive.

Miss De Souza squeezed her shoulders again before moving across to her own desk. “But why? It makes no sense. I don’t know what they could possibly gain…”

“I bet it’s that Tony Femora,” Melissa said dully and the man with the long curls instantly looked up, the patch she’d been admiring on the rear of his jeans disappearing as he turned fully towards her, although the movement presented her with an even more interesting aspect. Until he stepped forward and the edge of the desk came up against his hips. Robbed of her focus she instead brought her gaze up to his face. The frown he was sporting did nothing to detract from his beautiful eyes and generous mouth. She tried again to wipe away smudged mascara, as he finally gave her his full attention.

“Tony Femora?” he repeated.

“Melissa, hush now, I’m sure he has nothing to do with this,” Miss De Souza soothed her with a gentle smile.

“He’s always making threats, he rings all the time and he’s even had a go at her in the carpark,” she said, feeling suddenly annoyed. “I’ve heard him. He’s worried that Miss De Souza will win the election.”

“That’s enough,” Miss De Souza said sternly. “You don’t know that at all, Melissa.”

“But he does phone and has accosted you?” Mr Cowley asked and Melissa thought he sounded quite stern now. 

“He is a rival for the Council seat of Tower Hamlet.” Miss De Souza explained. “I am sure he is not involved with this. He is just a bit zealous in his approach to politics.” 

“Does his zealous approach include threats?” the other man, Mr Bodie asked. 

Melissa gazed at his handsome profile and sighed, almost forgetting the conversation. He looked at her and winked and it very nearly dispelled the dangerous air that seemed to hang around him. Nearly, but not quite. She found she was a bit frightened of the dark intensity he seemed to project, and glanced at the other one again. He looked at her, and then the man beside him and his lips curled just slightly in sardonic acknowledgement of her discomfit. Annoyed, she looked away.

“No,” Natasha shook her head. “He just taunts, that’s all, there is nothing he is doing that is against the law.”

“He doesn’t want her to beat him at the polls,” Melissa flared up again. “Tells the public lies to vote against her!”

“And how do you know this?” Mr Cowley asked her and she reddened. 

“Well, he must do. They avoid us. The election is in three weeks and we haven’t got anywhere. No one in the electorate wants to talk to us. It’s like they are afraid.”

 

***

Finding himself on babysitting duty gave George Cowley an added appreciation for the constant complaints from his men for the same sort of assignments. Accompanied by Doyle and Bodie, the former once again driving, he escorted Miss Natasha De Souza to three appointments the next day. Sitting in the rear seat, enveloped in the woman’s perfume, he idly wondered whether the Minister actually had the authority to order him to do this and why he was so insistent that Cowley take the job personally. Miss De Souza was passionate about her work, giving aid to undeveloped countries, to making a difference to people’s lives but no more so than other members of the Foreign Office. With the continued activities of the IRA, bombings were an unfortunate fact of London life, but this particular attack seemed to bother the Minister immensely. Cowley glanced at the woman beside him, today professionally attired in a black skirt and grey silk blouse, blond hair tied back into a bun. A woman that many men would find attractive, as evidenced by Bodie’s behaviour, although, Cowley noted with interest, Doyle didn’t seem to share his partner’s admiration. 

Doyle’s competent ability behind the wheel had them arriving at the Columbian embassy in record time and he reflected that using a variety of CI5 vehicles had at least eliminated any more bomb threats.

The Columbian ambassador welcomed his guest warmly, speaking in his own language. She replied enthusiastically and then indicated the men behind her.

“Jose, you already know Mr Cowley, head of CI5?”

“Yes of course,” Jose Bederos answered politely in impeccable English. “Is there a problem, my dear?”

“Of course not,” she replied with a small laugh. “Mr Cowley is just being cautious about my safety after the car bombing on Wednesday. Although I’m positive it was just randomly placed, he felt it wise to oversee my safety.”

Cowley heard Doyle whisper, “Not to mention the random bullet riddled wall in her office.” and cleared his throat loudly, silencing, if only temporarily, his outspoken agent.

“I see,” Bederos answered. “Well come in then, Mr Cowley. I will order tea. Or perhaps something stronger?”

“Well,” Cowley gave a small smile, “If you have a wee dram, it wouldn’t go astray at all.”

Ignoring the muttered, “Bread crusts and water are fine for us, thanks” from behind him, Cowley was invited to sit at the conference table where Natasha was already laying out maps and files from her brief case. He accepted the half full glass and sipped beatifically, letting the flavour of the peat roll across his tongue. 

As a consideration to him, their meeting was conducted in English and he listened to their talk about setting up a new trade agreement to help out the impoverished southern region of Columbia. Doyle and Bodie stayed alertly by the door, Bodie with a bored expression on his face, Doyle with a slight frown.

“The skirmishes have hit them hard, just here,” Natasha was pointing to a map. “I think an application for foreign aid wouldn’t go amiss, Jose.”

“Possibly,” Bederos scratched his chin. “They are farmers though, _mi querida_. They will bounce back.”

“Still, foreign aid will be a help to them,” she argued determinedly. “I’ll put in the request.”

Cowley watched as she picked up her pen and notepad to list the regions they were discussing, when Doyle interrupted. 

“Isn’t that region renowned for being the cocaine capital of the world?”

They both turned in surprise. Doyle had moved away from the door and had silently approached, eyes on the map in front of him. 

“Yes it is, Mr Doyle,” Natasha agreed smoothly, watching him in confusion. 

“And they also produce heroin, don’t they?”

Cowley was about to order his disobedient agent silent, but stopped at that. 

Jose Bederos drew himself up indignantly, “Mr Cowley, I am not accustomed to being questioned by armed bodyguards in…”

“Just answer the question, please, regardless of who asked it?” Cowley requested, somewhat resigned to the fact that his lot in life seemed to be constantly soothing feathers that Doyle constantly ruffled.

Bederos didn’t look happy but acquiesced to Cowley’s request. “Yes, although the cartels primarily deal in cocaine for the American market, heroin is rapidly rising as an alternative since the middle east crises, particularly for Europe. Mr Cowley what has this to do with giving foreign aid to impoverished areas?”

“The farmers in this region might find it profitable to turn to supplying heroin,” Doyle persisted. 

“All the more reason to supply aid to them,” Natasha said, tilting her head appraisingly at Doyle, as though unaware before now that he had a brain. “The farmers will not succumb to the drug barons demands if they are not so desperate themselves.”

A snort of disbelief came from Bodie’s direction and Cowley shot his agent a warning glance.

“But we are not here to discuss the drug trade in Columbia, Mr Cowley,” Bederos said, giving Doyle a flinty look. Doyle stared back defiantly. 

“In any case,” Natasha said, smiling winsomely at the CI5 operative. “Most of the aid I propose is in education and basic necessities. These are areas that do not interest those intent on supplying drugs.”

Cowley listened, but he was seeing the portrait of a young university student with long fair hair and smiling brown eyes.

***

As though the arrest of Chief Superintendent Kenneth Drury had sealed the flying squad with an infectious taint of corruption, Cowley was met with a hostile and unhelpful reception when he called in to query the department’s involvement with Vinnie Carter. Jack Slipper’s retirement had left a gap, the position yet to be filled and Superintendent Douglas Morrow was standing in until a suitable replacement could be found. The appointment seemed to be taking some time. 

“My blokes were making routine enquiries of Carter in the course of their duties,” Morrow said stiffly, “Standard stuff. I hardly think it’s a matter for CI5.”

“I decide what is a matter for CI5, not you,” Cowley replied mildly, although he was anything but. Politeness dictated he keep his voice even, but he felt an immediate dislike for the man. He was aware of Doyle and Bodie, a sold presence behind him. “And CI5 is interested in the convenient alibi Carter has for the night of a possible murder.”

“If you have issue with any of my officers, you can go through the official channels.” Morrow stated, standing up. “My men talk to criminals, it’s their job. Or do you think I should keep them all at their desks?”

“Might not be a bad idea…”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Cowley cut in quickly, throwing a quelling look in Doyle’s direction. Doyle was feeling bolshie judging by his expression and Bodie’s amused smirk did nothing to defuse his irritation. Unsure of which of his insubordinate operatives he was more annoyed with, he brought his attention back to Morrow. “I can pull rank, …… I can but I would rather not. It would be far easier to have a quick word with your boys, just to tally up times and such. And we’ll be on our way.”

Morrow glared at him for all of thirty seconds before stabbing the intercom on his desk. “Send for Taylor and Henshaw.”

The two detectives had yet to start their shift, appearing from the rest room suitably perplexed. 

“Mr Cowley, CI5” Morrow said and gestured to each of his men in turn, “Taylor and Henshaw.” 

Andy Taylor was the senior of the pair, late thirties, sandy hair thinning, belly just starting to run to fat. Scott Henshaw by comparison looked barely old enough to shave, his dark hair untidily sweeping across his forehead, tie and jacket all but imitating a school uniform. 

“What’s going on?” Taylor folded his arms defensively and flicked wary eyes from his boss to the visitors. 

“Mr Cowley is wanting to know about your meeting with one Vincent Carter on the third of March in the _Pig and Whistle in Stepney_.” Morrow informed them, leaning back in his chair.

The men looked even more baffled. 

“What about it?” Taylor demanded belligerently.

“Exactly,” Bodie put in and shifted forward. “What about it?”

Cowley could tell by Bodie’s tone that his operative didn’t like the aggression. “Bodie,” he warned and Bodie subsided, still glowering menacingly.

“Tell Mr Cowley why you were meeting with Carter,” Morrow ordered tiredly.

“Someone gave us a tip off that he was back in London.” Taylor said. “Said he might be up to no good. So we went to have a quiet word. Told him we were watching him.”

“That’d scare him,” Doyle snorted contemptuously earning a furious scowl from Taylor.

“What time was this?” Cowley asked quickly, before Taylor could respond.

“Around four or so,” Henshaw spoke for the first time. “It was just going dark, he stayed in the pub for a couple of hours, having a drink and playing pool.”

“And that is the only reason you sought him out?” Cowley confirmed, “Who tipped you off.”

“Anonymous.” Taylor gritted out. “Is that all?”

“One more thing,” Cowley pressed. “What car does Carter drive?”

Henshaw frowned. “A blue Vauxhall, I think. Cavalier maybe.”

“That will do for now,” Morrison put in. “Cowley, my men have work to do.”

“Well, that’s that, then,” Bodie commented as they emerged back out into the overcast day. “He has an alibi.”

“What was that about the car, sir,” Doyle queried.

Cowley stopped by the Capri, and turned to his men. “I saw a grey car pulling up alongside Groves as he left headquarters. A grey sedan,” He frowned, searching his memory for that day a little over a month ago. “Groves seemed to lean away from whoever it was. As though he knew him.”

“A lot of grey cars about, sir,” Bodie mentioned unhelpfully. 

Cowley glared at him. “Then you will have some work to do to track it down, won’t you, laddie.”

Doyle grinned at his partner. Bodie rolled his eyes and opened the passenger door.

Cowley settled himself in the rear seat and regarded his agents thoughtfully. Doyle was examining his hands, bright red spots appearing over the darker red of old blood. He’d opened the healing scabs again. Difficult not to, considering the site of the injury and the bit of fun he’d had arresting Carter. 

“I want you two to consider moving to Wapping,” he announced as Doyle pushed the key into the ignition. Both heads whipped around and he smiled in amusement. “Go see why Tony Femora is the preferred electorate candidate over Natasha De Souza.”

 

***

CHAPTER 5

“How am I supposed to find a grey car in this city?” Bodie complained as he loitered beside his partner in a doorway out of the blustery squall that had caught them unawares. The weather had turned nasty and the streets gleamed wetly.

“One just there,” Doyle said absently, pointing at the steady stream of passing traffic.

Bodie closed his eyes briefly, before shaking his head. “Ta, mate, that’s very helpful, that is.” 

“You know he’s done time, don’t you?” Doyle said unexpectedly.

Bodie, his mind still preoccupied with grey cars, said, “Who?”

“Tony Femora. Did a six week stint for perverting the course of justice in ‘72.”

Bodie gave a sideways look towards Doyle, who was leaning against the brickwork, hair curling wildly in the damp air. The rain seemed to be easing, although the wind gusts were still strong. Doyle pulled his leather jacket tighter around him. Bodie, better protected in his poloneck and heavy anorak squinted out at the dripping sky. “How do you know that, then?”

“Because I helped bust him.”

Bodie digested that as they watched the shabby office block across the road. Tony Femora had a printing business on the second floor. Exactly what else he did in there was anyone’s guess but after Doyle’s revelation, it was bound to be shady. 

“Then how is he running for Tower Hamlet?”

“He’s an independent. If he gets voted in, he gets voted in.” Doyle pushed away from the doorway and Bodie followed, eyeing another grey car travelling up the street.

“I mean it might have helped, mightn’t it, if he’d even noticed the model. Or whether it was light grey or dark grey.” 

Doyle’s sharp gaze had transferred to a florist shop four doors down. “Why do you think that office girl said no one would talk to them? Why would they prefer a convicted felon for their councillor, over an upstanding model citizen like Natasha De Souza.”

Bodie, firmly of the opinion that all politicians were crooks anyway, grunted, “Because he threatened them?”

“Yeah.” Doyle’s long legged stride made for the heavy glass doors of the florist.

***

Linda Bowers crouched down behind the counter to sort through a pail of mixed lilies. She had a handful of blooms, stems dripping water and was grappling for the twine to tie them together when the small bell attached to the door tinkled merrily and a cold draft of rain scented air swirled around her ankles. Quickly she twisted the twine, calling out. “Be with you in a tic…”

“Oh, no rush,” a very male voice answered, one she didn’t recognise and curious, she tied the ends of the twine together quickly and dropped the flowers back into the bucket. Popping up like a jack in the box, she saw two men - one, dark haired, dark eyed, inquisitively poking at an ornamental bumblebee which was attached to a mixed basket on the display shelf, the other, slimmer with long disordered curls, leaning against the door frame, gazing out at the street. 

Approval was immediate, bringing a warm flush to her skin as her artistic eye noted the hard, rough edges of men accustomed to a harsher world than a flower shop. But then caution prevailed. Linda was under no illusions as to the sort of people that lived in this district. Heavily bombed during the war, it still had an abandoned, neglected feel, gaps of discarded rubble where buildings once stood, the crowded pre war conditions prevailing in the remaining intact streets. Rent was cheap and accordingly it attracted the poor, the downtrodden and, unfortunately a burgeoning criminal element. With that in mind, she eyed the two men warily, wondering if they fit the latter description and ready to toss them out on their ear if they did. 

“So, what can I do you for?” she asked, reasonably sure that they weren’t here to buy flowers. 

The dark haired man left off poking the bumblebee with a blunt forefinger and murmured suggestively, “Let me count the ways,” before smiling at her quite boyishly. But she wasn’t buying his sudden display of charm, good looking he certainly was, but he couldn’t quite hide the ruthlessness that hovered around him no matter what sort of friendly face he put on.

In contrast, the other man was not smiling, although his sinfully full lips looked made for it. Instead he was studying her with an unnerving intensity, green blue eyes slightly narrowed. He was leaner this one, but no less threatening, whipcord agility as opposed to his mate’s sold musculature. 

“Thinking of moving into the area,” he said with an unexpected warmth and then he did smile and it was like the sun coming out. “Just checking it out, you know, see if it suits me. Live here do you?”

“Yeah, all me life, grew up just down past High Street,” she replied, enchanted but still wary. She leaned on the counter and glanced between them, undecided as to their intent and purpose but willing to give them the benefit of the doubt for now. “It’s ok. A little rough of course, but what do you expect for the price. Lots of immigrants, some troublemakers, but some good people too.”

“Yeah,” he glanced around, looking at the pails and buckets of blooms littering the doorway. “I heard there is an election soon.”

“Yes, next month. The old member, Mr Morrison died recently.”

“Who’s likely to win?” The dark haired one moved away from the bumblebee to inspect a pot of African violets.

She looked at them both suspiciously. “Why? Will it make a difference to you moving here?”

The man with the curls gave her a half smile, and her gaze fell on those full lips entranced. “Could do. Dunno. All this talk about developing the docklands. If that goes ahead it might be too noisy for me.”

“It’d disturb his beauty sleep.” The African violets were abandoned in favour of some long stemmed roses.

“Don’t mind him, love,” the man with the curls told her. He leaned in conspiratorially, “Beauty sleep doesn’t work on him.” 

She giggled, unable to prevent it and found herself volunteering information. “Old Morrison was keen on the Docks Rehabilitation Scheme,” she wrinkled her nose. “Thought it would be good for the area, increase job opportunities, better housing, lessen the crime. It’d be noisy all right though, while its being done. Most of the wharves are rotted right through and only a handful of boats use them now, too dangerous by far. If you don’t want the noise, you’d better hope Natasha De Souza wins, she’s against the development. Says it’s a heritage area.” 

The dark one glanced at the other again, but the man with the curls was frowning, fidgeting slightly, flexing his fingers as though to stretch the tightness of healing skin and she saw they were bandaged. 

“I’ve heard Tony Femora is running,” he said. 

“Yes,” she said, glancing suspiciously between them. “Why?”

“Heard he’s done time.” The dark haired one mentioned, lifting a rose to inhale its fragrance and frowning when he didn’t detect any. 

“Not for me to say,” she said stiffly, suspicion increasing. Who were they? What did they want? There was no way she was getting tangled with Tony Femora’s business, and she wanted them out of her shop. “But if you’ve finished, I’ve work to do.”

For a minute they lingered, both gazes disconcertingly full on her, as though trying to figure out her sudden turn of mood, neither making any attempt to leave. She began to panic, but mercifully the door swung open again, the bell tinkling to admit a customer. The blustery wind and rain accompanied a middle aged woman wearing a camel overcoat and brightly coloured headscarf against its dampening effects. Both men shifted to allow her entry, but she stopped abruptly and the scarf was tugged off, revealing platinum blond dyed hair and a carefully made up face. 

“Hello love, fancy seeing you here. What have you done to your hands, then?”

And the man with the curls took a visible step backwards, eyes closing briefly and Linda had the distinct impression he wanted to swear but daren’t. 

***

“You stay out of his business,” Margery Harper snapped as she led them away from the florists, away from the interested ears of Linda Bowers, back to the quieter side street. “He’s not to be messed with, CI5 or no CI5.” 

She was getting worked up and knew it. But the very thought of it. When the young florist had told her they were prying into Femora’s business, she knew she had to do something or young Ray would be getting himself into a right mess, although by all accounts that was nothing new, he seemed to make a habit of it, Tony Femora or no Tony Femora. It was enough for her to switch her wrath to Bodie, who looked quite taken aback at the ferocity. “I thought it was your job to look after him. Why aren’t you doing your job, then, lout of your size?” 

Before Bodie could protest, Doyle, stung, was saying, “I don’t need Bodie to….”

“Course you do,” Marge interrupted scathingly, poking a finger into his solid chest. “Or you wouldn’t be messing with Tony Femora.”

“Then you’re saying he’s up to no good?” Doyle asked, “Using threatening tactics…”

“…to secure a job he wants so badly…” Bodie added.

“…that he has everyone frightened to death?” Doyle finished, glaring at her.

“What are you? A pair of Siamese twins?” Marge couldn’t believe her ears. Honestly, she thought with an exasperated huff, all that training, all that natural ability and yet they could still go blundering about in the dark unless someone kept an eye on them. “He’s doing nothing of the sort. Mark my words, and don’t interfere.”

They looked at each other, in that way they had, as though having a silent conversation in their heads. Her voice sharpened. “It’s not always what you think. Why are you wanting him, anyway?”

“His opponent in this election seems to be a target for a nutter with a bomb fetish,” Bodie drawled dryly. “And for some reason, the finger has been pointed at him.”

“Natasha De Souza?” Marge asked, scandalised. “Rubbish, what proof does she have?”

“Marge, Marge,” Doyle’s hands were up, trying to placate her, looking almost out of his depth. She felt a rush of fond sympathy for him, sweet lad, he did try his best. “We’re just looking into it.”

“Someone is trying to blow her up?” Marge snorted in disbelief. “Really?”

“Really,” Doyle agreed an edge to his voice. “Do you know anything?”

She gazed at him, saw his attempts to curb his impatience. “No, but rest assured love, I’ll look into it for you.” She patted him gently on the cheek and turned away.

Helplessly Doyle said, “No, I don’t want you to look into….” 

But she ignored him, setting off back to the florists to get the carnations for her table. She would have to do some poking around herself now. To keep her boy out of trouble. Smiling she pushed open the door to enter the dubious warmth of the florists. She’d do more than that for Ray Doyle, if only he were willing, but for now, since that lout wasn’t doing his job properly, she’d have to look out for him. 

***

Bodie watched her go, the desire to laugh so strong he was nearly choking. Particularly once he saw Doyle’s resigned face. “Ah mate, your amazing prowess with the opposite sex knows no bounds.”

“Shut it you, you’re the one says he’s happy if they’re under fifty, warm and come across. Be my guest.”

Bodie scratched his nose. “Doesn’t like me though, does she? Not pretty enough for her.” 

Doyle gave him a withering look. “God knows what she’s going to stir up.”

“God knows,” Bodie agreed but then they both fell silent as the wooden garage door at the base of the office block opposite slid open. Both operatives instinctively leaned back, blending with the shadows at the mouth of the alley. The car that emerged stopped as the driver checked for traffic, right hand indicator on. The driver was Tony Femora, his swarthy Italian features easily recognisable from his election propaganda, but as the car swung neatly into the traffic, Bodie found himself looking directly into the very familiar blue eyes of the passenger and recognition flared. To say which of them was more startled was anyone’s guess but their eyes remained locked until the car accelerated and disappeared from view over the slight rise.

Bodie felt Doyle glance at him, heard the soft huff of amusement. 

“Speaking of under fifty, warm and wanting to come across….”

Bodie gave him an austere look, “Can’t help being irresistible, can I?”

“Rather you than me, mate,” Doyle said with utter conviction.

“Doesn’t mean he would,” Bodie shot back, but Doyle just gave him a look of patent disbelief.

His partner stepped out of the alley and hunched into his jacket, “Curiouser and curiouser…” 

“…said Alice,” Bodie ended obligingly, and looked up the road again, but the car had long vanished. But as curious as it was to recognise Marty Martell in the passenger seat, and wonder what the hell the arms dealer was doing with a local candidate for parliament, curiouser still was the vehicle itself. A late model grey sedan. 

 

***

CI5 were an inevitable and tiresome intrusion that King Leon could neither predict nor control and their sporadic visits left him feeling on eggshells, never knowing when his usefulness would end and he’d be hauled in. Generally Doyle was the operative called to deal with him, a legacy, he suspected from the man’s time on the Drug Squad, and one he could well do without. 

King Leon disliked the agent immensely. Slim, young, overlong hair and snug jeans a distraction, he appeared at the top of the stairs to his office, accompanied by his ice cold partner. Bodie was a totally different kettle of fish altogether, the complete opposite of Doyle. He never knew what Bodie was thinking. The man’s expression was always a mask of sardonic blandness and he watched Doyle’s back with all the lethal coldness of a prowling jaguar. It was quite unnerving.

Both agents had marked his men with consummate ease and King Leon wondered, with a resigned reach for a cheroot, why he actually bothered hiding any. Doyle flicked an amused glance in his direction, as though agreeing with his silent sentiment. Leon flicked his gold lighter, put the flame to his cheroot and inhaled deeply, mentally preparing himself for whatever CI5 wanted this time. 

A photograph was abruptly shoved under his nose, nearly catching fire from the still burning flame and he choked, jerking back, dropping the lighter with a curse. 

“Seen him?”

Leon glared at Doyle before looking at the photo, a middle aged, balding man wearing spectacles. He shook his head. “No.” 

Doyle gazed at him, a slight smile playing at the corner of his full mouth. Leon wasn’t fooled, having endured Doyle’s techniques before and no matter how friendly Doyle might appear, he knew better than anyone that he wasn’t, CI5 having instilled a ruthlessness in the man that he was in no way adverse to using. Leon sucked on his cheroot again, trying to appear nonchalant. 

“Why you wanting him, man?”

“Who’s supplying heroin these days?” Doyle asked conversationally, pushing the photo back into an inside pocket of his leather jacket and glancing at his partner. Bodie flicked his eyes to Doyle but remained silent, content to let him do the work while he kept watch, one hand inside his jacket, no doubt nestled around the butt of his weapon.

“Many people,” Leon rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Just get to the point, man.”

“There was a shortage due to the eastern Europe crises. It’s now coming in from somewhere else. Where? South America?”

“Maybe.” 

“So a new source.” Doyle moved away from him but the relief was brief as the CI5 man sauntered over to his filing cabinet. Leon’s eyes flared in alarm, but Doyle simply stopped, hand poised as though to open a drawer before looking back over his shoulder. “And a new player. Names, Leon, or the Drug Squad can come and do a raid.”

“I don’t deal in supplying,” Leon protested automatically.

“But you know,” Bodie put in, slyly, “who does, don’t you?”

He scowled pure hatred at Doyle by the cabinet and then back at Bodie who was watching him carefully, hand still inside his jacket. He knew if he made a move, he’d be dead before he could finish it.

“New stuff is coming in, yes. I do not know how. There seems to be a lot though, more than I would risk smuggling,” he looked consideringly at Doyle. “Whoever is bringing it in, isn’t being cautious. They are not following our ways. They are not scared of being caught. That is all I know, man.”

Doyle let his hand drop and turned back around, looking Leon squarely in the eye. “And if you don’t know who it is…”

“Then he is not known to us.” Leon said and sucked on his cheroot… which had burned out. He glanced at it in frustration. 

“So a new player is supplying from outside the country. And they aren’t part of the criminal world. Is that what you’re saying?” Doyle persisted.

“Don’t think much of your Kingdom, Leon, if a player is moving in on your game, and you don’t even know who it is,” Bodie put in slyly, not even looking at him. “Or how he’s getting it past your boys.”

“Well Leon only knows the trash, Bodie,” Doyle said fairly, “Can’t be expected to know anyone with class, not in his lowly position, can he? Not someone with the sort of class to smuggle that much heroin in, right under his nose, and him not able to do a thing about it,” he aimed a malicious look the drug runner’s way, lips curling contemptuously. 

Growling low in his throat, Leon flung his mangled cheroot aside. God what he’d give to get rid of this arrogant son of a….

“Temper, temper,” Bodie admonished, waving one finger backwards and forwards in his direction, his other hand producing his gun from inside his jacket. 

“If you hear anything,” Doyle said abruptly, suddenly all business, “I expect you to get word to me.”

Leon stared at him, mouth a slash of hatred, eyes glittering with murderous intent. Doyle merely laughed at him and he had to physically clench his fists to not give a signal to his men. One day, one day… 

***

Having delivered Miss De Souza back to her offices for the remainder of the afternoon, Cowley left Joe Tulliver on guard and joined his two operatives by a tea stand on the riverfront to hear their report. Bodie ordered hot refreshments while Doyle brought him up to date.

“So he doesn’t know.”

“No, but I suspect he’s been trying to put a stop to it. It’ll be undercutting his own business, quite apart from his losing credibility. It’s not coming in the usual way with the usual bribes, he’d know about that, nobody could start supplying at street level without him knowing about it.” Doyle replied, sheltering in the lee of the tea stand out of the rain and examining his palms while Bodie placed their order. “He knows who’s pushing it of course, probably some of his own dealers. But he doesn’t know who is supplying it, who is bringing it into the country or how. And he’s not happy about it. Not happy at all.”

Cowley frowned as he processed this information. It was much as he’d suspected. “And I suppose he couldn’t get the information from his pushers?”

“I doubt they know themselves,” Doyle answered, “It’s complicated how it’s handled, and the suppliers are good at transacting with false names and aliases and rarely do any direct selling themselves. They used hired go-betweens. They set up a meet, goods and money exchanged and that’s it. Dealers aren’t that hard to find and they aren’t picky who they buy off, it’s the sell that’s important.”

“So a new player,” Cowley murmured, Doyle only confirming what he already knew of drug running. 

“Or someone who isn’t a criminal at all.” Doyle replied, then frowned and corrected himself, “Well apart from this, that is. It’s not only the down and out that use the stuff after all. You go to any rich kids twenty first and a hit of pure is likely to be lined up with the champagne, and its big money in anyone’s language. There’d be a few who’d be in a position to take advantage of that easily, universities, cafes to name a few, friends of the parents, older relatives. Nice respectable front, a drug pusher on the side. The kids aren’t going to tell are they? They get a safe, discreet source and he sets up his retirement fund for a villa in the south of France quite nicely.”

“But to supply that amount under the nose of the criminal world,” Cowley mused, “They would have to have very good contacts indeed and a very good system. So, who are they and how are they smuggling it in?”

“And where did Groves stumble across it,” Bodie added over his shoulder as he counted out coins.

“Yes.” Cowley gazed across the Thames to where a tugboat was shepherding a barge downstream, fighting wind and gusty rain. What were the man’s movements in the days before his disappearance? He’d have to backtrack him somehow, try to find where Nigel Groves went off course in his day to day routine. He certainly wasn’t the sort of man who could infiltrate organised drug running, so it had to be somewhere where he was known and overlooked. The answer was at work, much as it left a sour taste in his mouth. Something to look into, anyway. Cowley made a note to investigate the personnel in the departments Groves had worked in during his secondments and then switched his mind to their other problem.

“Tony Femora did time for perverting the course of justice in 1972,” he said, declining Bodie’s offer of a bacon sandwich and settling for a styrofoam cup of tea instead. Making a face at the taste, he wondered at the logic of inventing a substance that altered the flavour of the component it was designed to hold in such a drastic way as to be nearly undrinkable. “Found guilty of creating a false alibi, he was uncooperative during the investigation and spent six weeks inside.” Debating whether to add sugar to improve the taste, he eyed Bodie who was enthusiastically enjoying his bacon buttie. 

“When he was released he disappeared for a few years, but turned up in Wapping where he has been ever since, running a printing business. It’s not clear what he may have been doing on the side, but the Met have been keeping an eye on him and haven’t detected anything along criminal lines.”

“Drives a grey car,” Bodie offered, “If that helps.” 

“Does he?” Cowley took another sip of tea and gazed out over the misty city outline. 

“You want us to bring him in?” Bodie asked, reaching for his own tea, seemingly unbothered about the styrofoam taste. 

Cowley paused, considering. He could detain Femora for questioning, but had a feeling it would be unproductive, the man seemed to have a solid resistance to anyone in authority. A more subtle approach would prove more effective in this instance. 

“Not yet. A leopard doesn’t often change his spots. Femora had no interest in politics until Syd Morrison died. So far the odds are in his favour, although no one wants to talk about it. I’d rather know why without them knowing that we are interested.” He looked at Doyle, who was cradling his own cup of tea and gazing with faint disapproval at the greasy sandwich Bodie was wolfing down. “Doyle, I think a bit of undercover work in Wapping is called for.”

Doyle switched his clear gaze from his partner and nodded. 

“You are sure that he won’t recognise you from your time in the force?” Cowley clarified.

“Reasonably, sir. I was a very young constable when he was arrested, and my sarge was the one did all the interviews.”

“While young Ray here fetched the tea,” Bodie put in smirking. 

Doyle deliberately looked at the refreshments Bodie had ordered and raised a brow. “Yeah, well some of us have moved on from that.”

“If you’re sure, then,” Cowley said impatiently. “See what you can find out.” 

“What about me?” Bodie asked with his mouth full. 

“You’ve got a gunrunner to see,” Cowley said and drained the last of the tea from the cup. 

***

Upon leaving his meeting in a charming 17th century pub at Greenwich, Marty Martell wasn’t in the least bit surprised to find Bodie waiting for him, although he still had no idea how the man so easily located him. Pointless asking as well, he’d just end up with some smart reply that evaded the issue and he’d made a promise to himself that he would never ask again. He indulged himself with a good long look before settling his face into one of peeved displeasure. Still tall, still devilishly, darkly handsome. Still amused, damn him, by Marty’s inability to stop lusting after him. He often wondered why Bodie tolerated it. Didn’t call him out and threaten his life or at the least, grievous bodily harm for his predispositions. After all, he had the full authority of his position to enforce Martell’s co-operation and there wasn’t a damn thing Marty could do to prevent it, so he didn’t need to keep on his good side, didn’t need to keep Martel sweet by ignoring what, to most men of his calibre, would be very offensive. 

Nobody could ever know Bodie well, with perhaps the exception of his unpredictable partner, but Marty knew enough about the man to know the amusement was real and Bodie was, basically, unbothered by the attraction. Even now, looking at him, his dark blue eyes were crinkled and his lips twitched at the corners, blast him. Definitely amused and Marty felt the old familiar anger at being reduced to such an unthreatening inconsequence with just one look. He should walk away, he should refuse to ever talk to the man again, should by all rights do a lot of things. All which went out the window the minute Bodie grinned at him and with an inward groan, he settled for cold disdain and without thinking demanded, “How did you find me?”

“Used my compass and sextant” 

Martell gave him a frosty glare, “Very funny, what do you want?”

Bodie pushed off from the fence he’d been leaning against and approached slowly, hands jammed in the pockets of his heavy jacket, black cords snug around his thighs. “Just thought I’d catch up.”

“My dear chap, you never just catch up with me, unless there is something you want.” Marty turned his back and began to walk towards the promenade. 

Bodie kept up with little difficulty, the solid muscularity belying the superb fitness it contained. Marty glanced sideways, but Bodie’s gaze was on the masts of the Cutty Sark, just visible over the row of houses, like skeletal fingers pointing to the dismal overcast sky. Gulls wheeled and shrieked around the mizzen, as though the ship was ploughing steadily through the Indian Ocean, rather than chained to a dry dock and he felt the usual stab of senseless compassion for her, held captive away from the sea on which she was meant to sail. 

“What were you doing with Tony Femora?”

He expected it. Had expected it from the moment he’d locked eyes with the agent on leaving Wapping, he was only surprised that it had taken this long for Bodie to track him down. He glanced around looking for Doyle, but he was nowhere in sight, a fact that was both dismay and relief. Bodie’s partner was, in equal measures, difficult and gorgeous, unpredictable and moralistic and altogether far too volatile for Marty’s well ordered life.

“Business,” he said shortly, knowing even as he said it, that it was pointless to remain evasive. If CI5 were taking an interest in Tony Femora, nothing much would stop them and he would be swept up in the whirlwind whether he wanted to or not. 

“You only do one line of business, Marty,” Bodie said, and Martell stopped to face him. 

The wind ruffled the agent’s close cropped hair, lifted the edges of his jacket, but Bodie was braced solidly against it, like an ancient mariner at the helm, legs apart, dark gaze appraising him. Marty felt saliva flood his mouth and quickly swallowed it. 

“Then why bother asking, dear chap?” He resumed walking towards the tea clipper, masts poignantly misplaced against the outline of modern London, and the image of Bodie at the helm of such a vessel, brooding gaze on his men as they worked the stays and mainsails persisted, filling his head with romantic visions of full canvas and bright southern oceans, a world away from present day life. He shook his head ruefully. Getting sentimental in his old age, he’d be reading romance novels next. Glancing back at Bodie, he could see his eyes tighten warningly. 

“Nothing big, if that’s what you’re asking,” he reassured the agent.

“How big?” Bodie’s impatient tone blasted away any lingering thoughts of the 19th century tea clippers. 

Marty stopped again and faced the CI5 agent, switching his mind to business. “Handguns mostly. Couple of Berettas, a Smith and Wesson, Walther PPK’s. Why?”

Bodie gazed off into the distance again, the blustery wind buffeting strongly from the Thames. “What’s he into?”

“Into?” Marty gave an incredulous snort. “How should I know?”

That earned him a hard, dark blue stare. 

“Be a mate then, and find out, eh? Mate.” And he was gone, striding down the street, black cords snug, jacket tight across broad shoulders as he hunched against the appalling weather. 

***

Doyle trotted up the two flights of stairs, glad to be out of the wet gusts of wind. The storm cells were persisting well into the weekend according to the weather bureau and he was tired of being cold and wet. Not to mention rapidly running out of dry clothes. The stairs were bare concrete with an iron railing and the doors at the top were the type that had heavy metal handles to pull them open. A sign next to the door was simple: Femora Printing. 

He dug in his pocket to pull out the piece of foolscap on which he had scrawled his requirements and pushed open the door. A bell sounded, but he wasn’t sure if it would be heard over the noise of a printing press in the back room. A long counter ran the length of the reception area and he leaned over to see a man in a grubby apron bending over the press, watching paper feeding through at an astonishing pace.

Doyle rapped his knuckles smartly on the counter and the man looked up at once. Italian dark hair and eyes raked him over once before sauntering to the counter picking up a filthy rag to clean his hands on the way. He hadn’t changed much, Doyle thought, watching the man carefully, looking for any signs of recognition, but there were none, the dark eyes wary but helpful.

“Need to get some flyers done.” Doyle said by way of greeting, placing the foolscap page on the counter. Femora looked down and turned the page around, silently reading. 

Work wanted, fit, hard working, available any time. 

“What size and how many?” he asked, no trace of his background in his accent.

Doyle leaned on the counter and stared at the man, deliberately letting aggression show. “Dunno, what do you think? I’ve just moved in and need a job pretty bad.”

“What do you do?” Femora asked, counting the letters required to produce Doyle’s flyer.

Doyle smiled. “Anything.”

Femora looked up. “Perhaps you can start at fifty and increase it if you need. You also need a contact number for people to find you. If you add that, the amount is 25p a page.”

Doyle did a rapid calculation in his head. “That’s a bit steep, I don’t have that sort of money. Better make it twenty for now and hope I get a job out of it.”

Femora nodded and began to write up a receipt while Doyle dug his fingers into his pockets looking for some money. “Don’t know anyone do you?” he asked casually, “That needs some muscle?”

He didn’t say much, Tony Femora, but he looked at Doyle consideringly and merely replied, “If I hear, I will let you know.”

Doyle was satisfied. If Tony Femora was up to no good, he wouldn’t take Doyle on, not without knowing more about him. But that was down to Bodie. In the meantime he’d test out the locals, see what they thought of the perjurer turned printer.

He left the office and wandered back out into the blustery weather. Direct enquiries would get him nowhere, he’d already seen that by the florists hostility. Marge Harper was another possibility, and although Doyle was very much aware of her soft spot for him, he also knew that honour among thieves might possibly be stronger. He needed a cover where he could overhear incautious conversation and inebriated customers were the best for providing that. But how to secure a job without using his authority?

There was a pub up on the corner, the Lime Tree Inn, and Doyle headed in that direction, wondering where the lime tree had been, as the pub was squashed between two buildings of approximately the same vintage and not a scrap of garden to be seen. He felt a slight tingle on the back of his neck as he reached the pub entrance, and knew he was being watched. The doors were large and heavy and as he tugged them open he glanced up casually, to all intents and purposes checking the weather. But he didn’t miss the face at the window of Femora Printing and allowed himself a small congratulatory smirk as he entered the smoky interior. The inside was low and dark as befitted a pub of its age and he went and leaned against the bar, waiting patiently for the attendant to finish with an old man with long grey hair and dirty clothes. 

“Pint of your best,” Doyle said, once the man turned to him. He waited until it was poured, froth spilling over the edge before adding. “Looking for work.”

“Isn’t everyone,” the man scooped up his coins and turned to the till, disinterested. Doyle frowned, debating whether to pull his ID, but then an idea struck.

“Just been to see Tony Femora,” he announced in a low voice. The response was interesting. The attendant stiffened suddenly, poised with his fingers still in the drawer. “He said he’d let me know of anybody needing a hand.”

The till was slammed shut and the man turned back to him. He looked a bit pale but spoke normally enough. “What do you do?”

“Anything,” Doyle replied, raising the glass casually to his lips, watching the man over the lip, intrigued by the reaction.

The man stared at him for a bit longer then said. “Need some rubbish cleared out the back, and a couple of hours at night. That do?”

“Yeah,” Doyle said, and took a long mouthful of his lager.

***

CHAPTER 6

 

There hadn’t been any further attacks on Natasha De Souza since the shooting through her office window but Cowley kept the guard up outside her door. The lady seemed resigned to the presence of armed men, though she seemed put out that Cowley had assigned her Anson, rather than Bodie. Knowing Bodie, as he did, Cowley felt justified at sending his womanising agent out to keep tabs on Doyle undercover, instead. 

The brief respite from the De Souza situation had allowed him to set Betty on gathering information on the people who worked in the offices where Nigel Groves had been seconded prior to his disappearance. He had drawn a blank with regards to extra curricular activity, Groves caught the 7.15 tube every morning, worked all day until six and, according to his wife, was home for dinner by seven. His weekends were also accounted for, an elderly aunt was in hospital and Groves spent much of Saturday and Sunday visiting her. It left little time to pursue drug pushers either by day or during the wee hours of the night. Cowley was forced to admit that all the evidence so far, unlikely as it seemed, pointed to his employment. Once Betty had their particulars, Murphy was sent to delve into the backgrounds of the staff, but so far was drawing a blank there as well. 

Betty brought him some morning tea and another couple of files. 

“That’s the last of the Northern Ireland office,” she said, “I’ll get started on the Health Department, shall I?”

“Aye, thank you,” Cowley took up the files and glanced at the top one. They contained, unsurprisingly, little information, the public service was not conducive to employing people with shady backgrounds and the most he could come up with was a dozen or so speeding fines and perhaps twice that number in parking tickets. 

His phone rang and absently he picked it up, “Cowley,”

“There is a Robert Trenery, sir,” Betty said and he could hear her voice both through the earpiece of the phone and from her desk outside his office, like a strange amplifier. “He says he’s representing one Vincent Carter and would like to talk to you about, as he said, holding an innocent man without justification.”

***

Whenever Bodie was required to keep tabs on his partner working undercover, he took it very seriously. Well, serious enough while downing a couple of pints, all in the name of authenticity of course. He sat in a corner booth, where he could see the door and Doyle at the same time, although his partner barely looked in his direction, just methodically wiped glasses clean from his position behind the bar. Bodie glanced at his watch. They were late. He settled back and half closed his eyes against the inevitable cigarette smoke that seemed a permanent haze in the low ceilinged taproom. 

Across from him three men were at the dartboard, the quiet thunk of the darts hitting the target surprisingly audible over the low murmured conversation by the dozen or so customers and Alvin Stardust, _coo coo ca chooing_ from the jukebox near the amenities. Doyle picked up another tray of washed glasses and reached for a clean towel. Bodie played with his half empty glass, not game to order another, not while he was on duty anyway.

The door finally opened, letting in a blast of the rain sodden gusty air and Bodie gave a casual glance in that direction. There was Femora coming in and shaking off his overcoat, raindrops falling like sparkling crystals in the low light. Behind him was a soaked Marty Martel and Bodie grinned to himself. The gunrunner didn’t look happy. He sent a hard look in Bodie’s direction and steered Femora to the designated table so as to be in earshot. Bodie leaned over his table, propping his head on his hand and started to nod, affecting a harmless drunk customer. Doyle kept cleaning glasses, paying no heed to any of them. 

Femora spoke briefly with Martell before approaching the bar and Doyle stopped cleaning glasses. The man nodded to him. “See you found a job.”

“Couple of hours, not enough,” Doyle stated abruptly, “I’ll still need the flyers.”

Femora nodded and ordered a Guinness and a lemonade. Bodie sniggered softly. Marty was a wine connoisseur but Bodie knew he’d rather drink horse piss than what passed for the house white in a place like this. Doyle dutifully poured the drinks and Femora carried them back to the table, where Marty was studying Doyle in a fair imitation of puzzled recognition. 

“Do you know that fellow?” he asked Femora, shifting his eyes to the bar where Doyle had resumed his glass cleaning. 

Femora shrugged. “Ordered some flyers yesterday afternoon.”

“Ah,” Marty fastidiously used his pristine handkerchief to wipe the rim of his glass, even though he’d observed Doyle cleaning them. Bodie didn’t know if he did it to wind up Doyle, or whether it was just force of habit. “I know of him. Handy man to have in a tight spot.”

“Is he?” Femora twisted his head to look at Doyle who was now hanging the clean wine glasses from the racks above the rear counter, his shirt stretched tightly across his back. Bodie noticed Marty’s eyes lingering appreciatively but when Femora turned back, he was all business again. 

“Yep, will do anything, no questions asked. Just wants the money.” Marty finally took a cautious sip of his drink, as though expecting it to taste like acid. “An acquaintance of mine used him for a job not that long ago. He was professional and discreet.”

Femora remained silent, but cast another quick glance at the bar. Bodie smiled into his now empty glass. Bingo.

 

***

Vincent Carter, newly released, trotted away from CI5 Headquarters to the nearest tube station. No fool, he knew he’d be followed, but Cowley must have thought he’d come down in the last shower if he believed he could put a successful tail on him. Several changes, platforms and subterfuge later, he arrived in Notting Hill, confident that he’d shaken his shadow. A phone box outside a Boots Chemist was occupied by an elderly man, seemingly deaf judging by the shouted one sided conversation he could hear through the glass. Carter loitered outside impatiently, hands in his pockets fingering his coins as he gazed at the passing traffic. He had arrangements to make, plans to finalise if he was to lie low for a bit, and he intended to make sure he did. If CI5 were taking an interest in his activities, and more to the point, if Doyle was part of that lot, his days of outwitting the law could soon be over. And Vinnie was far too smart for that. The elderly man finished his conversation fumbling with both his stick and the door. Carter politely assisted, pulling open the door and giving his hand to aid the man out of the box. A dentured grin thanked him.

“All right Grandad?” Carter made sure the man was steady on his feet on the pavement before entering the booth, pushing his coins in the slot and rapidly dialling a number.

***

“So you aren’t getting anywhere then?” Bodie asked as they sat in the newly mended silver Capri, following the brown Ford Cortina that contained Taylor and Henshaw from Special Branch.

“Nah, it’s like a wall of silence.” Doyle put one foot on the dashboard and rubbed his eyes wearily. Bodie knew he’d closed the pub around three and he was tired, but Cowley, with his usual thriftiness to budgeting, saw no reason for him not to work away from his cover during the day. “The only thing that lot are talking about is the development of the docks and which candidate is going to back it or not. Far as I can tell De Souza doesn’t want it and Femora does.”

“Doesn’t make sense, you’d think she’d be all progress. There’s enough dereliction to clean up. Bomb damage too, isn’t there? Down near the basins?”

“Yeah.” Doyle was silent for a time, watching as the Cortina indicated to pull into a parking spot a few feet from a phone box. “You know, if Cowley’s got a hunch Special Branch is in it up to their ears, he’s taking a bit of a risk with my cover?”

“Just surveillance, Ray,” Bodie soothed but Doyle wasn’t appeased.

“Bit hard to survey anyone in this state,” Doyle gave a massive yawn and then blinked watering eyes. “What are they doing here?”

“No idea,” Bodie looked around quickly for a park where they wouldn’t be seen and saw a likely spot on the other side of the road. Forced to wait until a bus passed, he did and slotted neatly in behind a van where they had a fairly unobstructed view of the Cortina. Taylor and Henshaw were just alighting. Henshaw indicated the café next door to a Boots chemist and Taylor nodded, reaching in his pocket. It was mid afternoon and Bodie was hungry.

“Wouldn’t mind some nosh either,” he murmured to Doyle.

“You’ve just had a sausage sarnie,” Doyle reminded him.

“Was hours ago, that,” Bodie protested as Taylor disappeared into the café. 

“Get away, you’re still digesting it,” Doyle retorted and Bodie gave a mournful sigh before returning his attention back to the scene on the opposite side of the road. Henshaw loitered outside, looking up and down the street. Another bus passed, blocking their view and when it was clear again there was a surprise.

“Well, well, well, the company they keep,” Bodie murmured as Vinnie Carter appeared from a doorway and faced the detective.

Carter spoke briefly and Henshaw responded by running a hand agitatedly through his hair. Bodie regretted not parking close enough to hear, but then he’d had no choice, not if they didn’t want to be spotted. Whatever Henshaw was saying was cut off though, when Taylor reappeared from the café, discovering them. He strode across to face Carter, aggression clear in his stance. Angry words were exchanged.

“Doesn’t look all that friendly,” Doyle mused watching. “Think they are warning him off?”

“Looks that way.” Bodie agreed, “Although how’d they know he’d be here?”

“Good question,” Doyle murmured.

They watched as the argument escalated, Henshaw trying to pull Taylor back, but the older man shook him off. Finally, Carter held up his hands, turned and walked away and Taylor then faced Henshaw with the same anger. Henshaw shook his head and looked down before both men returned to their car. Bodie felt his partner look across at him.

“Be nice, wouldn’t it, for the old man to tell us what he suspects for once?”

“Yeah,” Bodie put his hand on the ignition key, waiting. “A right novelty.”

“Better call it in,” Doyle reached for the RT unit and flicked the switch. “4.5 to base.”

“ _Come in 4.5._ ”

“Is that Alison?” Bodie asked, still watching the Cortina.

“No, shut up,” Doyle ordered then hastily added into the handset, “No, not you, love, I was talking to 3.7. Yeah, patch me through to Alpha, would you?”

“Sure it wasn’t Alison?” Bodie queried. “Sounded like her.”

“Think it was Robyn,” Doyle said, “Why?”

“Oh that’s all right then, I’d like to avoid Alison just now.”

Doyle just looked at him.

“I cancelled my date with Alison, as Eleanor became unexpectedly available,” Bodie explained. “Then had to cancel my date with Eleanor to babysit you.”

Doyle gave him a singularly unsympathetic look, “Charming.”

“Yes, well if you don’t mind, I’d like to lay low with Alison for a bit.”

Doyle shook his head in disgust. “Is that all women are to you?”

Bodie turned his entire upper body around in mock outrage. “Of course not. I can be a extremely sensitive soul with deep inner feelings just begging to be emotionally released.”

Doyle ignored him, waiting for impatiently Cowley’s response.

“And that’s not all women are to me, no,” Bodie sniffed huffily. “Some of them are great cooks.”

“ _Alpha_ ,”

“Sir, thought you’d like to know, our two friends have just met with one Vincent Carter, recently released.”

There was a silence and then the Scots voice spoke quite softly, almost purring, “Did they?”

“You want us to follow them or Carter?” Doyle asked rubbing his eyes.

“Stay on them for now, call me if anything new develops. Out.”

Doyle shoved the RT back in the glovebox. The brown Ford had its indicator on. 

“You working again tonight?” Bodie turned the ignition and the Capri roared smoothly into life. 

“Yeah,” Doyle leaned his head against the backrest and shut his eyes. “Eight till close.”

“Well,” Bodie said, watching the traffic in the rear vision, waiting for a gap. “Lets hope that when Femora hires you to do his dirty work, you don’t fall asleep on the job.”

Doyle didn’t answer, in fact to all intents and purposes his partner had dozed off. Bodie glanced at him in exasperation, then pulled smoothly out into the traffic, and slotted in nicely, two cars behind Special Branch. 

***

 

Murphy felt like he was going nowhere fast. He’d finalised the interviews for the Northern Ireland office and had moved on to the Health Department.

The first two candidates had appeared justifiably baffled and with no clear memory of Nigel Groves at all, even when prompted with a copy of the man’s photograph. Then he got lucky. The third interview was Meg Chapman, a cheerful young lady of nineteen and she remembered Nigel Groves quite well. 

“He was a very sad man, wasn’t he? she bubbled, with an uncommon insight for someone her age, “I thought at first it was because he’d made that mistake, but then he was like that all week. I don’t like seeing sad people so I tried to cheer him up. Told him all about my wedding and he was ever so nice, listening to the problems I was having with the invitations and...”

Murphy tried to rein in the babble of words, steer her in the right direction, “Mistake? What mistake would that be?”

“The one where he got it wrong. Although anyone could have really, the whole place is like a maze and no one ever really knows where to go. Bob Kendall actually turned up at the Prime Minister’s rooms on his first day…” she smothered a giggle, “I bet she was surprised, well that is, if she actually came out and saw him...”

“What day, when was this?” Murphy interrupted.

“Bob Kendall… well that was…”

“No, not Bob,” Murphy resisted the urge to raise his voice. “Nigel Groves.”

“Oh.” She changed tack without taking a breath, unbothered by the interruption. “Right at the start. The first day he was due to work with us, he didn’t turn up. I asked him about it, you know, because he looked so sad, and he said that he’d made a mistake with the department he was meant to go to, really, like I said, quite understandable. So I…”

“Hold on, hold on. We don’t have a record of him going to a wrong department. Which department was that?”

“He didn’t say,” Meg said, smiling brightly and somewhat dimly. “He didn’t talk much at all, the quiet type, you know? I was telling him all about my invitations and how I was looking to get them printed, he was ever so nice about it, he reminded me of my uncle in a way, although I don’t know why, they don’t look a bit alike but with the power cuts I was sure I was going to have to hand write them all, would have taken me weeks, my mum’s invited everyone in the street and my Auntie Minnie’s hairdresser because she’s giving us a discount and perms these days are ever so expensive, but then of course...”

Murphy wasn’t interested in her wedding, or the invitations until he caught a name in her constant stream of chatter.

“What was that?”

“I said that Tony Femora said he could print them and he was much cheaper than Gibson’s. I’ve placed my order and he was ever so accommodating. In fact he...”

“What was that about Tony Femora and Nigel Groves?” Murphy prompted again, astonished that anyone could speak so much without taking a breath.

“His business card, Nigel left it on his desk. I was going to give it back only he didn’t come back to work. I don’t think he’ll miss it do you? I mean, it was lucky for me as Tony said he could put doves in the corners and match the colour to the bridesmaids and I was really pleased….” 

***

CHAPTER 7

 

Doyle was industriously wiping glasses while keeping a tired eye on old Henry, who was propping up the bar and half dozing into his beer. A quick glance at the booth showed Bodie in much the same state, although he usually went home around eleven if nothing was happening. And nothing had all week. He half wondered why Gavin Ramsden kept him on, although he guessed Tony Femora had a lot to do with it. He’d tried to engage Ramsden in conversation, draw him out on the subject, but manager clammed up whenever Femora was mentioned. And yet it wasn’t quite fear Ramsden exhibited, more like reluctance. Doyle couldn’t figure it out. 

He glanced at his watch and then at the door as it opened. Speak of the Devil. Tony Femora stood there, shaking rain off his coat. Doyle ignored him, taking another glass to polish. Behind him, Ramsden closed the till, saw Femora and sidled away to the other end of the bar. 

Femora walked right up to Doyle and leaned on the counter. 

“What can I get you?” Doyle asked setting the glass he’d just polished right side up, hand hovering over the pumps.

“Got some work if you’re interested,” Femora announced, looking around, and keeping his voice low. 

“Always interested,” Doyle confirmed, moving his hand away from the pump and leaning against the edge of the counter instead. 

“Might need you in the next day or so,” Femora said vaguely. “Not sure when, I’ll let you know, but it’ll be at night. Know your way around a gun, do you?” 

Doyle stilled and Femora looked sharply at him.

“Yeah,” Doyle casually picked up the glass again and gave it another wipe before setting it in the clean tray. 

“Heard you were reliable,” Femora pushed, black eyes glittering in the low light as he studied Doyle. “Reliable, discreet and no questions asked.”

“That’s right.” Doyle picked up another glass.

“Good,” Femora gave a brief smile. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

He left as abruptly as he’d arrived. Doyle glanced across to Bodie, who lifted his head from his folded arms and gave him a wink. Doyle smiled briefly, yawned and went back to work.

In fact it wasn’t until two days later that Doyle got a message from Femora to meet him at the end of his shift. Doyle showed the note to Bodie who raised a cynical brow at the scrawled instructions. 

“Not a lot of information there,” he said, dismissively.

“What’d you expect? Detailed instructions on how to plan her assassination.” Doyle said scathingly. 

“If that’s what he’s going to do,” Bodie replied. “He might just want you for a bit of B&E.”

Doyle snorted in disbelief, “You think?”

Bodie lifted a brow his partner’s way and said, “Whatever he wants, you just watch yourself.”

“Thought that was your job.” 

As it was, Doyle didn’t see his partner as he waited outside the pub after closing, shivering from the icy wind that blew in from the Thames, but knew he wouldn’t be far away. He’d fetched Doyle’s Walther from where it was hidden in the Capri earlier, discreetly handing it over in the pretence of buying a drink and left not long after to keep watch. Doyle hunched further into his jacket, wishing he had warmer clothes but fortunately didn’t have long to wait before the stocky Italian appeared from the darkness, quite alone. He didn’t speak, merely indicated with his head and Doyle fell in, one step behind him. Femora made a bee line for the street leading to the river, surprising Doyle, who had thought they’d get into a vehicle. It would throw Bodie out, he thought, guessing that Bodie was sensibly sheltering in the Capri, out of the weather. He didn’t look behind him, his faith in his partner absolute. 

When Femora was joined by three other men, their faces shadowed and hidden by woollen caps, Doyle’s apprehension went up several notches and when their path took them to a narrow alley that led to the abandoned wharves, he hesitated. 

“Where’re we going?” Bodie wouldn’t get a car down here, that is, if his partner was tailing him by car although Doyle doubted it, unable to hear the purring motor of the Capri. 

Femora paused, looking at him directly. “To the docks.” 

He turned and kept going, followed by his three friends and Doyle, having little choice did likewise, but in the darkness he removed his weapon from his holster and put in into his pocket, hand wrapped around it, just in case. The wharf was crumbling, rotten, damage and neglect making it hazardous to negotiate, silent warehouses towering above, empty windows like malevolent eyes. His dilated pupils could just make out names, cleverly worked within the brickwork, a permanent reminder to who had built them, _R L Freeman and Sons, McDonnell and East Trading Co_ and one that made a smile twitch… _John Mills, Himself_. Names of a bygone era when the docks were alive with ships from all over the world and these imposing buildings were filled to the brim with merchandise. 

Femora turned downstream and picked his way through the clutter and Doyle followed growing more puzzled. What the hell were they doing down here? Did they have someone down here, someone to intimidate or blackmail? He could think of far better surroundings, if so. Senses sharp, he kept his wits about him and his hand around his 38 but Femora’s attention seemed to be on the river, where lights floated and bobbed, marking buoys, anchored craft and moorings.

The wharves gave way to a tow path and ended at the shadowed entrance to Shadwell Basin where they stopped. The Thames lapped at the old stones, water oily and dark, bits of rubbish and weeds brushing against the walls. Femora leaned on an old bollard and made himself comfortable, lighting a cigarette and keeping the red tip hidden as he smoked. He was looking downstream intently, blowing steady streams of blue smoke that was only just detectable against the night. It was quiet, distant hum of traffic and the occasional passing aircraft the only noise besides the lapping of the water. The three men with him also smoked, shifting restlessly against the cold but no one spoke. Becoming increasingly baffled, Doyle looked over his shoulder, but couldn’t see Bodie, not that he’d expected to. A light drizzle began to fall, blown about by the incessant wind. Three cigarettes later and Doyle was cold, tired and hungry. 

“Look, I thought you wanted me for a job?” 

Femora turned to gaze at him and straightened up. The Italian was shorter than Doyle, older as well but his friends moved to stand with him. “I do. If you feel you aren’t up to it, you can leave.”

Doyle stared at him, not what he’d expected. “Just want to know what we’re doing here.”

“Waiting,” was the unhelpful reply. 

Doyle set his jaw and followed the man’s gaze downstream. The sky was beginning to lighten. Water traffic moved slowly on the Thames, but nothing was taking an interest in Shadwell Basin. “Waiting for what exactly?”

“A shipment. One which warrants this deserted bit of docklands and a dark night. Need I say more, Mr Doyle?”

Drugs? Well that would explain the suspected sideline to his business. Doyle decided to keep up his aggressive front. “Well, when are you expecting it?”

“Not tonight it seems,” Femora said with finality. He turned and nodded to the rest of them and led the way back along the tow path to the wharf and from there back to High Street. 

***

 

Murphy stood stoically by the door, hands in his pockets, handsome face serene as he waited. Bodie, his expression more bored than serene stood next to him, eyes fixed on the window and the grey scudding clouds. Only Doyle, with his inability to stay still was pacing slightly. Cowley flipped the business card through his fingers idly, absorbing the information his three agents had brought him. 

“Nigel Groves was obsessed with finding dealers, to avenge his son,” he recapped, almost to himself.

“And Nigel Groves at some point, had contact with Tony Femora,” Murphy nodded. 

“Connection,” Bodie said in satisfied tones.

“And nothing to do with pink bridesmaids either,” Murphy added, in an aside to Bodie, who smirked in response.

“And Nigel Groves has disappeared,” Cowley went on.

“And so has Vinnie Carter,” Doyle said. “After he had an argument with the flying squad.”

“No connection,” Bodie said contrarily.

“Femora could have hired Carter,” Murphy said, “If Groves found out what Femora was doing.”

“But Groves said it was big. Femora is small time,” Doyle protested.

“However, he was waiting on that dock for a shipment,” Bodie pointed out. “A shipment of drugs seems likely.”

“He’s not big enough to get around King Leon,” Doyle disagreed, “Could just as well been an arms shipment, your mate is dealing with him, after all.”

“That’s not Marty’s style,” Bodie scoffed. “And Groves was interested in drugs, not guns.”

“Well, whatever it was, it was coming by river,” Cowley mused. “Murphy get on to the Harbour Master, I want a list of every ship that was waiting to berth this week.”

“Sir,” Murphy gave a nod. 

“In the meantime, I want to know what Special Branch are up to. Bodie you and Murphy can do that. Twenty Four hours surveillance.”

He saw Bodie give an involuntary flick Doyle’s way and thin his lips in disapproval. Cowley didn’t say anything, after all, he had been the one to foster Bodie’s protective streak around his partner. 

“Doyle, stay undercover, see what you can get out of the other men that accompanied you.”

“Sir,” Doyle hesitated, “If this is true, and Femora is bringing drugs in, it doesn’t explain how he’s distributing them.”

“That’s your job to find out. Keep a low profile at all times.” Cowley said and looking at the business card, flipped it into his drawer.

*** 

Discreet enquiries had Bodie discovering both Henshaw and Taylor working at their desks in Special Branch headquarters, although, like all policemen, they could be called out at any time. Accustomed to surveillance, he and Murphy were sat in the Capri outside the exit from the underground carpark, rousing from a half doze only when a vehicle emerged onto the ramp and stopped to check for traffic at the top. Bodie couldn’t help feeling that it was a little odd, having Murphy there and not Doyle and he wasn’t pleased that Doyle now had no backup. 

“He’ll be all right,” Murphy murmured, as though reading his mind. 

Bodie shifted in the seat. “He’d better keep his head down.”

Murphy was amused. “Won’t see much if he does.”

Bodie just grunted. “I’m starting to wonder if the old man is just imagining things. I mean there isn’t much to go on is there? Not between Femora and Groves?”

“He’s been right with far less than this before,” Murphy reminded him. “Ey up, that looks like Taylor and he’s alone. Must have clocked off early. You’d better take him, I’ll wait for Henshaw.”

He quickly exited the car as Bodie turned the ignition, alert now. He checked his mirror, caught a glimpse of Murphy getting into his choice from the motor pool, a red Renault , and then pulled out into the traffic to follow the small blue Datsun. 

According to their files, Taylor lived at Clapham, but it was immediately obvious it wasn’t the older detective’s destination. The traffic was heavy and it took some time for Taylor to get out of the city and onto the A13 towards Wapping, which Bodie at first thought was his destination. But Taylor stayed on Commercial road and Bodie was forced to drop back a bit to avoid detection, particularly when the detective finally turned off, taking a number of narrow roads which eventually led to a very run down boat yard, enclosed by a half toppled wire fence. 

A broken gate stood pointlessly open, the base overgrown with weeds and grass, a dangling sign proclaiming it to be private property. Slowing right down, Bodie steered the Capri into the muddy yard, keeping a sharp look out. Rusted vehicles, rotting dinghy’s, piles of rope, winches, decking, disused equipment and broken masts complete with rigging lay abandoned and neglected among the weeds, most of it overgrown by some sort of thriving ivy. The yard was familiar and Bodie realised he’d been here before. One of Doyle’s contacts had a boat here. Brownie, yeah that was right, a small cabin cruiser. Until he realised that being one of Doyle’s contacts was far more jeopardising than rewarding and he upped and moved somewhere else, Plymouth, or maybe Lyme Regis. 

Driving carefully around the water filled potholes, Bodie searched for the Datsun, locating it parked by the side of an upturned boat. The hull, which had at one point needed scraping was now half covered by the prolifically growing ivy, but that wasn’t what had caught Bodie’s attention. Rather it was the shed on the other side of the hull and unlike the rest of the boat yard, the shed was in reasonably good repair, and the ivy had been cleared away from the large door at the front. Intrigued by this anomaly, Bodie drove over and parked behind it, switching off the engine. Near silence descended and he sat for a minute listening. Nothing but the wind getting up, a lonely sound through this empty backwater and louder than the faint hum of the city that was ever present. Opening the car door, he emerged and checking his weapon, worked the slide and flipped the safety catch off. 

The shed door was shut, a shiny chain and new padlock threaded through a small opening, proclaiming to all and sundry, that in a boatyard full of worthless junk, there was something of worth contained therein. Bodie sidled over and looked through a grimy window. A car. A dark grey Granada to be precise. He pursued his lips in a soundless whistle. Well, well, what a surprise. Although it could be entirely coincidental, as he’d said himself, there were a lot of grey cars about, Bodie brought his gun up, holding it steady as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior. But there was nothing else, just the car. He slid his hand into his jacket and retrieved his RT.

“3.7 to base.”

“ _Come in 3.7_.”

“Need a trace on a vehicle, grey Granada, plate number…” he squinted through the gloom, “ED..er..T 611 W, no, V” 

“ _Will do, 3.7, stand by_.”

An abrupt noise breached the silence and he recognised it straight away, the hesitant start of a motor being coaxed to life. It was coming from the dock, Taylor must be down there. Bodie went instantly into action, haring down to the water. The moorings were crammed with boats, two and three abreast, most of which looked like they never moved from their anchored positions. 

The motor finally tuned over, protesting with an emphysemic cough before settling down to a somewhat unreliable chug chug. Ignoring the distant ramp, Bodie leapt across to the first boat, landing precariously on the stern and bounded across to the one next to it, vaulting the rail with the ease of one familiar with seaworthy craft. The motor became louder, the echo across the water throwing his ability to pinpoint where exactly it was coming from. He jumped across to a small trailer sailer, which shifted alarmingly against his weight, and clambered to the bow where he could see the Thames flowing swiftly past. A small somewhat dilapidated cabin cruiser badly in need of some work was chugging sedately out of the backwater. From this angle he was unable to see the occupant, the cockpit just part of the dark outline, but he was reasonably sure it was Taylor. He squinted dubiously at the sky. Not exactly sailing weather, and not that much daylight left to enjoy it either. Bodie watched as the cruiser made for the river, navigating downstream and as clear as yesterday, he remembered the conversation he’d had with Brownie when looking over his boat. _Get out a bit do you? Across the channel?_ And Brownie fending him off. _Purely for pleasure son, purely for pleasure_.

*** 

CHAPTER 8

 

Miserable bloody weather. Miserable bloody week of it, Melissa Simms thought as she huddled into her brand new trench coat and sheltered out of the rain inside the narrow alley that led to Leicester Yard. Her propaganda material was ruined by the incessant wet windy conditions and even worse it was driving the few people that lived here indoors. The street was practically deserted. Glancing at her watch, she wondered whether it would be better to pack it in for the day, particularly as she wouldn’t normally have been here anyway. But Sheila, the local supporter, had called in sick, and she hadn’t wanted to let Miss De Souza down. The election was too close not to take every opportunity and this specific locality, with a strong Labour following was the most resistant to their campaign. If she could only change a few people’s minds, surely they would spread the word. Perhaps she’d give it another five minutes and then head for home.

A man appeared, walking with a long legged stride, broad shoulders hunching against the weather and even with his head angled down into the collar of his leather jacket, he looked vaguely familiar. Melissa frowned as he hurried past, the wind whipping long curls into a tangled snarl, but it wasn’t until her eyes automatically dropped to check out the rear view and saw the patch on the faded jeans that she realised who he was. 

What on earth was he doing here? She looked around but he appeared to be quite alone, making fast progress up the street. Her immediate thought was that he must live here, then just as quickly changed her mind. A man working for CI5 would surely be able to afford better living conditions than the docklands. And yet, he didn’t look like he was working, it was far too late for a start and that other man, Mr Bodie, wasn’t with him. He must be off duty, perhaps visiting a friend. Watching that mesmerising patch as he made a beeline for the Lime Tree Inn up near the corner, her eyes turned speculative. Perhaps the afternoon wasn’t a total waste of time after all, could, in fact, be turned into something far more pleasurable. Piling her stack of pamphlets and posters into a carrier bag she made for the same pub, hoping her hair wasn’t too wet.

Removing her coat and hanging it up by the door, Melissa saw that it was still a bit early for the regulars, the place was empty except for one elderly man snoring in a corner booth, a couple of very wet tradesmen by the jukebox and a bartender who was counting the till. Mr Doyle had his back to her, he’d removed his jacket and scarf and was already at work, trim waist and narrow hips just visible above the counter top. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but his off white shirt emphasised strong forearms, and a broad back. Smoothing her hair down, she wiped the excess moisture from her face with her finger tips before tugging her blouse into place. 

Approaching the bar, she hitched one hip onto the stool and waited patiently. Whatever he was doing took some time, head bent in concentration and she noticed he kept flexing his fingers. They’d been bandaged, she remembered, the last time she saw him, although they weren’t now. 

The other bar attendant glanced up, saw her waiting and said, “Ray, customer,” and he instantly turned around. 

She saw his eyes widen in alarm before he angled his head away from her, biting his lower lip as though to prevent a nasty swear word slipping out. When he turned back he gave her a hard look before curtly asking what she wanted.

It wasn’t quite the greeting she’d envisaged although she wasn’t put off. He wasn’t like anyone she knew, far harder and perhaps more ruthless than she’d first thought, back in Miss De Souza’s office. And older too, than the boys she was used to, experienced. It was intoxicating mix and she felt a heady excitement at the challenge of enticing him. She put on her best winsomely appealing look, a trick that had never let her down before. “Er.. lager and lime.” 

It didn’t seem to have any impact at all, his annoyed expression not altering in the slightest as he reached for a glass from the rack behind him. Self consciously she smoothed her hair again, regretting that she hadn’t ducked into the ladies first to freshen up, although previously it had never mattered. Most men had the sense to see what she had to offer at first glance. His gaze, however, was not on her and what she had to offer. It was intent on the glass under the tap and the flow of lager into it. She noticed his palms were covered in plasters, the large sort you cut with scissors and quite unsuitable to being immersed constantly in water. Tutting in disapproval, she shook her head, how did he expect them to heal properly like that. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, well,” as though caught off guard, he hesitated. “Just helping out a mate for a bit.”

“Oh that’s ever so kind of you,” she beamed at him.

He gave her an indecipherable look. “Yeah. What are you doing here?”

“I saw you walking up the street and wondered how you were getting on with the investigation,” she replied blithely, not questioning the fact that a CI5 operative was working in a pub, and just as oblivious to his quick warning look. She did, however, notice that he glanced back to where the other bartender stood at the far end of the bar and manoeuvred himself so that he blocked her from the man’s line of sight. Taking that as a good sign - he mustn’t want the other man to notice her - she smiled happily. “Have you caught the bomber yet?”

“Not yet,” was his cautious response, the look he gave her not at all encouraging. 

Melissa ignored it and gazed up at him dreamily. “You should, you know, Miss De Souza is ever so nice.”

“Is she?” he said, in the sort of tone that indicated otherwise. 

“She is too,” she defended her employer loyally, “In fact I’ve only ever heard her raise her voice once in the whole time I’ve worked for her and that was when that accountant turned up accidently.”

He really was good looking, she thought, but as she gazed at him, his expression sharpened and those lovely eyes narrowed. “Accountant? What accountant?”

“The one that came to us by mistake. Spent a whole morning in Miss de Souza’s office before she came back and she was very angry.”

“When was…”

“Hallo love,” A voice interrupted. “You got a minute, then?”

His eyes flicked from her to the newcomer and his face abruptly changed again to a peculiar mixture of dismay and resignation. Melissa turned automatically to see who it was.

She was old, was her first thought, instantly relieved that there was no competition. And trying not to look it, if that overdyed hair and blue eye shadow was any indication but her skin was good and she was dressed expensively and flatteringly. The woman was returning the assessment in much the same way, lingering on her wet hair and tight dress with a blatantly condescending expression. 

“Excuse me, I was having a private chat with Mr Doyle,” Melissa felt annoyance flare, but the woman merely flicked her fingers dismissively as though Melissa was an annoying child. 

“Toddle off now dear, the grown ups need to talk.” 

“The grown ups are talking,” Melissa retorted before adding to Doyle, “We could chat some more after you finish work if you like, Ray. You could take me home and I’ll make us a coffee.”

But the woman just laughed, “He doesn’t do children, dear, no matter how tight your dress is,” she glanced sideways at Doyle, “Do you, lover?”

Ray gave a low exhale of exasperation and Melissa saw him glance again in the other barman’s direction, “Look, can you both just….”

“Shut up,” it was said simultaneously and they glared at each other. 

Melissa looked from the woman to Ray, saw his increasingly desperate face. “What’s going on?”

“Look… Melissa is it?” he ran a hand agitatedly through his hair. “I’m flattered, I really am, but this isn’t a good time.”

The woman was looking smug now and Melissa’s jaw dropped incredulously. “Her? You’ve got to be kidding! She’s old.”

“That’s not what I…”

“Well that’s lovely that is,” the woman put in scornfully. “That’s real class, coming from the likes of you. A real man - like Ray here - wants a real woman, not some trumped up little tart barely out of school. He’s not interested love, so go on… scoot, it’s past your bedtime.” 

“Wait a minute,” Doyle gripped the edge of the bar and looked at her. “I’ll call you at your office, about the accountant.”

The accountant? Melissa couldn’t take it in. He only wanted to talk to her about the accountant but he wasn’t sending that old bat anywhere. She was old enough to be his mother, surely. Abandoning her drink, she slipped off the stool and made for the door, and her coat, hanging in the small entry. Pausing, she glanced back and saw Ray running his hand in frustration through his curls.

Behind her the door to the street opened to admit a man in a heavy, rain dewed jacket. She glanced up automatically, freezing as his face came into the light. The man stepped back courteously but Melissa, slowly catching up, felt the light bulb go off. “Oh so that’s why he’s here.”

“I beg your pardon?” Tony Femora looked at her in polite puzzlement. 

“We told them you know. Told them how you’re always having a go at Miss De Souza,” Angry and upset, she leaned in close and hissed. “You planted that bomb and now they are on to you. Why else would he be here then? Helping out his mate.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,” Femora said eyeing her warily. 

“I’m talking about that CI5 man in there, the one pretending to be a barman,” she jeered. “You think they aren’t on to you, think again. This will teach you to harass innocent people.” 

Pushing past him she clattered off down the street in her heels, head held high. 

Tony Femora swung his gaze from her retreating back, to the bar, where Ray Doyle was listening to a woman with platinum blond hair. For a minute he didn’t move, fury curling his fists. Then he turned and left the pub. 

***

The sun was lowering towards the western horizon before Bodie heard the distinct rumbling sound of the returning cabin cruiser, waking him from the half doze he’d fallen into. Quickly exiting the Capri he made his way at a half run to the dock, where Taylor was guiding the ancient boat back to it’s mooring. Concealing himself effectively behind a sizable sloop, Bodie watched as Taylor tied the boat efficiently and stretched, looking back across the river. 

“Hurry up, you bastard,” Bodie muttered ineffectively, it would be dark soon and he wouldn’t be able to see. 

Taylor took his time, however, tidying up some loose clutter, coiling the excess mooring rope and closing the hatch before finally stepping across to the pontoon. He still wore his suit, tie carelessly undone, and Bodie thought he must be half frozen, but it was clear, even in the gloomy light that he wasn’t carrying anything, either concealed or outright. The detective passed him by and Bodie heard him whistling softly under his breath. He manoeuvred to the other side of the sloop so he could watch Taylor approach his car, but the man didn’t access the boot, he merely opened the car door and inserted himself. The ignition turned almost immediately and Taylor drove the Datsun back towards the gates. Bodie placed his hands on his hips, thoroughly put out. If the man was smuggling anything, it would have to be the size of a matchbox. Or it was still onboard? Glancing between the boat and the departing Taylor, he quickly made up his mind. 

The hatch was padlocked, and Bodie made quick work of it with his lock picks. The interior was surprisingly tidy, if smelling a little damp and disappointingly empty. Bodie made sure anyway, lifting the bunks to check the storage underneath, as well as the trapdoor to the hull and engine. Familiar with boats, he was aware of the nooks and crannies that went into their construction and he checked it methodically. Lifejackets, flares, wet weather gear, a small primus stove, tea and coffee, nothing you wouldn’t expect to find in a boat. Nothing that would point Taylor to being in league with Femora and doing his drug run for him. He swore under his breath. Another dead end? Absently he kicked at the coaming, thinking. Did he offload it somewhere else? Or maybe it was just the wrong night. Bodie’s gut feeling told him Taylor was involved somehow. Just because there was no evidence now, didn’t mean that he wasn’t in it up to his ears, even if it was just covering for Vinnie Carter so that Carter wouldn’t rat on them. The car could be the one Cowley had seen, Bodie had searched it while waiting for Taylor’s return, but it was as clean as the boat. And yet, why stash it out here? A wasp buzzed past his ear jolting Bodie out of his musings, he’d need to get Malone to go over both, see what evidence he could find. 

When he returned to the car, the call light was flashing accompanied by the insistent beeping of the transmitter. He flung himself into the drivers seat and picked up the mic. “3.7.”

“ _Message for you 3.7. Mr Martell said to meet him at the Lime Tree Inn, says he has urgent information for you_.”

Bodie’s heart gave a faint lurch. No it couldn’t be, Doyle was quite safe, his cover sound. “Did he say what?”

“ _Negative 3.7. No return contact number provided either_.”

Bodie paused, finger on the button thinking furiously. 

“Understood. How did you go with the car, over?”

“ _Vehicle registered to Andrew Gerald Taylor, address 14 Junction Place, Clapham_.”

“Thank you,” Bodie went to click off and then hesitated. “Is that you Eleanor?”

“ _No 3.7_ ,” came the tart reply, “ _It’s Alison_.” 

“Oh… um… 3.7 out.” Bodie hurriedly replaced the mic and turned the ignition. 

***

Checking her watch, Natasha De Souza closed the last folder and stacked it neatly on the out tray ready for Melissa to file away in the morning. Leaning back she allowed herself the luxury of a stretch before easing her feet back into her discarded shoes under the desk. Swivelling her chair she spun around and bent for her handbag. A shadow by the door revealed Anson’s form, fidgeting and she smiled to herself. Nicotine withdrawal no doubt, the man not happy with her prohibiting his smoking near her office. Well it would do him good, she thought, unrepentant. Nasty habit. 

Turning off the lights, Anson greeted her at the door. 

“Finished?” he asked sourly but she ignored his surly tones.

“Finished,” she agreed. “I’m ready for a hot bath and a good glass of wine.”

He merely grunted and pushed the button for the lift. The street was dark and the weather still unpleasant, people wisely staying indoors out of it. She pulled her coat tight around her as Anson retrieved the car keys to the small white Leyland he’d chosen to drive. She waited patiently as he unlocked the passenger door. 

The attack came out of nowhere, the only warning was a faint whoosh behind her as someone ran past and she turned instinctively, heart jumping into her throat. Anson gave a shout, grappling with a man who was dressed in dark clothing, a balaclava hiding his face. Her mouth opened but the emerging scream was reduced to a muffled peep as a gloved hand clamped over her mouth. A second assailant had materialised and managed to physically lift her off the ground. Her arms pinned, instinct had her automatically kicking, hoping her heels would do enough damage for him to release her, but Anson had managed to throw off his attacker. Reaching into his jacket for his weapon, he drew and fired in one motion and she was suddenly loose, falling to the wet pavement, her shoes off and tights ripped. Running footsteps receded into the night and then Anson’s hand was on her arm helping her up.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes,” In fact she was shaking, but she straightened her clothes and retrieved her shoes and handbag taking a deep breath. “I’m fine.” 

***

 

Betty laid a list on the desk in front of her employer, noticing his abstracted expression, as though he was a million miles away. 

“The list of ships from 6.2,” she said and saw him come slowly back to her. He glanced down at the paper and put his glasses back on. 

She saw that crafty look he often sported when he was on to something flit across his face and he looked up at her. “ _Star of Brazil, Aztec Rose, Chalchiuitl, Virginia Mary, Franklin Roosefelt, Lotus Flower, Pride of Sydney, Nova Scotia_ ,” ran his finger down the list. “In all three ships from South America.”

“That’s important, sir?” 

“Yes,” he looked at the list for a bit longer. “Yes very important, particularly in light of Bodie’s information. I suspect very strongly that narcotics are coming in from South America and are being intercepted before the ships berth.”

“And Mr Groves somehow found this out?”

“Yes, although I still don’t know how or where, or how they are getting it past Doyle’s snitches. Bodie’s call suggests Special Branch might be in on it, which could explain Grove’s reluctance to go to the police. If so, I’ll need proof, clear evidence or the whole thing will be thrown out.”

“Do you think Tony Femora is responsible?” 

Before he could answer the phone rang, his direct line, and he picked it up. “Cowley. Yes? Why the devil wasn’t I informed?”

***

CHAPTER 9

 

She really should have been a copper herself, Marge thought to herself. If it wasn’t for the little matter of being born into a criminal family and marrying, when she was just sixteen, into an even larger one. And the appalling pay of course, money was far more lucrative in her line of business. Still, she was smart enough to keep on good relations with the law despite the inconvenience, had no choice really, not if she didn’t want to be constantly hauled down to the local. But young Ray, he was worth helping out, he was something special, she’d known that the very first time she’d met him. 

Linda Bowers had told her she’d seen him working in the Lime Tree Inn, undercover no doubt, and she had a thought that she might keep an eye on him, feed him what information she could glean from her various contacts. That he didn’t look particularly grateful for her interference didn’t deter her in the slightest. Had never learned to school his expression that one, not like his partner who often hid his thoughts behind a perfectly bland expression. Marge didn’t mind, there wasn’t much he could do that would put her off.

“A tequila sunrise, lover,” she smiled at him. “How are your hands then? Healing all right are they?”

He reached up for the appropriate glass, eyeing her warily. “Look, Marge…”

“Now don’t you thank me. I said I’d help.”

“This isn’t a good time,” Doyle said hurriedly, upending the bottle and squirting a shot into the glass, eyes constantly flicking to the door. “It might be safer if you leave.”

“Leave?” she frowned now. “Whyever would I do that? My next appointment isn’t for another thirty minutes.”

“Appointment? What sort of appointment?” Doyle suddenly looked interested and belatedly she remembered that he did actually work for the highest law enforcement agency the country possessed and could, if provoked, arrest her and have her stitched up for a good ten years or so.

“Never you mind,” she snapped tartly and picked up the glass he’d placed before her, taking a sip. Her eyes widened and she took a breath, “Not bad, perhaps a better brand of orange juice would improve it, but otherwise...”

“You have something for me?” 

He sounded impatient and she gazed at him fondly. Such a short fuse. “Yes I do.”

“About Tony Femora?” the belligerence was back in his voice and she frowned. 

“I told you to stay out of his affairs. Never tell me that’s why you are here?”

He looked heavenwards, as though trying to keep his composure. “What have you found out?”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “Haven’t you ever wondered, love, how Natasha De Souza has moved so fast through politics?”

At his baffled look, she went on in delight. “No? Honestly, so, so, oblivious. She’s earmarked for the under secretary of the Home Office you know, probably get it too, when Underwood retires at the end of the year.” She took a more cautious sip from her glass and considered him thoughtfully. “Odd that, when you think about it. Underwood being the Under Secretary.”

Doyle shook his head, “Come again?”

“Underwood…”

“No, not that bit. The bit about Natasha.”

She could see him striving for patience and smiled, reaching over to pat his hand. “Yes, dear, her and the Home Secretary, although I doubt his wife knows. Quite the scandal. Of course the silly boy is madly in love with her. Reminds me of my third husband in a way, he was like that around a pretty face. Has no clue of course that she’s just using him to ascend the political ladder. Oh she’s power hungry all right.”

“Fascinating,” Doyle said in exasperation, “But what’s that got to do with being a target?” 

“I’ve no idea. Unless it’s because she’s opposing the docklands development. She doesn’t want it to go ahead and she’s got the Minister wrapped around her little finger. Course the Tories are wasting their time anyway, always been Labour here, always will.”

“Why doesn’t she want it to go ahead?”

“Dunno, love. Some people don’t like change, they want to keep it the way they remember when they were young.”

Doyle was staring at her and she could almost see his clever mind working. “She grew up here?” 

“No, her mother did. Lost their house during the war, couldn’t afford to rebuild it. Poor as church mice they were but her family goes back generations in Wapping.”

She could see Doyle processing this information. 

“But Femora wants the development to go ahead?”

She rolled her eyes. “Course he does, dear, he already owns a good deal of property in the proposed area. If it goes ahead, Tony will be a rich man.”

 

***

Bodie was stuck in traffic. Nothing new there, London always had chaotic traffic. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as the line of cars in both directions crawled along at an agonising snail pace, eyes on the red tail lights of the car in front of him. Marty wanted to meet. Well that was really informative that was. Although, he acknowledged fairly, Marty could hardly say anything else over an open airway. Since he’d set Marty on to finding out what Tony Femora was doing and why he required weapons to do it, his information must have something to do with that.

But what had that to do with Doyle? And it must do, to arrange the meeting at the Lime Tree Inn. Bodie felt that half prickle down his back again, the sort of skittery feeling he often got when Doyle was in trouble. He glanced at his watch, it was still early, Doyle wasn’t ready to finish his shift any time soon, so he’d be there in plenty of time. He watched as the last sliver of daylight faded from the horizon inching forward another few feet, foot constantly on the clutch as the speed hovered between first and second. If he’d had lights and a siren, he would have used them, but they’d been removed for the repairs and hadn’t yet been replaced. And the road was too congested to get past the line of traffic anyway. 

Consoling himself that nothing could happen to Doyle until the end of his shift in a couple of hours, he pushed the gear stick back into first and inched the car forwards again.

***

Gavin Ramsden felt the weight of the bottle in his jacket pocket and nervously held his hand against it. Looking into the taproom, he saw Ray wiping down the already spotless counter. It was a slow night, the only customer old Henry dozing against the bar as usual. All the better for what he had to do, but thinking about it made him feel ill. He was definitely not cut out for this sort of thing. Glancing back to the rear door to the small back yard had him swallowing nervously. He knew there were shadows outside, waiting. 

Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he took out the small bottle and removed the lid, wrapping the handkerchief loosely around the opening.

“Ray…”

Mouth dry with apprehension, he saw Doyle look back over his shoulder, eyes questioning. 

“It’s slow tonight. Take an early, mate, I’ll close up.”

Doyle frowned and glanced around. “You sure?”

“Yeah, you’ve earned it.”

He watched the man hesitate, then give a shrug, depositing the cloth into the sink. His jacket was hung on a peg in the small room leading to the back yard and Gavin made room for Doyle to pass him. He was sure sweat was standing on his brow, was sure that Doyle noticed, the green blue eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“You all right?”

“Yes, yes, just feel a bit hot that’s all.” He wiped his brow, panic starting in the pit of his belly.

“I can stay, why don’t you go upstairs if you aren’t well?”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll get old Henry moving and close up. I’m just tired.” He smiled but Doyle didn’t look overly convinced. He didn’t argue though, just reached for his jacket and scarf, shrugging them on. 

“Oh, just before you leave, can you take that bag of rubbish out to the bins,” Gavin called casually, already turning back to the bar. 

Hands occupied in doing up the zip to his jacket, Doyle nodded agreeably but his eyes remained warily on Gavin and almost panicking Gavin picked up the ledger book, made a show of opening it to run his pen down the column of figures. The bag of rubbish was by the back door but the shadows had disappeared from the glass surrounding it. Doyle picked up the bag, heavy with empty bottles and balanced it in an attempt to prevent its weight from splitting the plastic. Gavin felt his heart start to thud painfully, this was it and there was no going back. He put his hand into his pocket, and upended the bottle into the handkerchief wrapped around it. 

“I’ll get the door for you mate, here…” 

He leaned past Doyle and pushed the door, letting in a cold blast of rain soaked air. Doyle walked through with a nod of thanks and instantly the shadows moved in. Gavin stepped forward bringing up the soaked cloth, but Doyle surprised them all. 

As though he had known they were there, the bag of rubbish was thrust into the first man with enough force to burst the plastic and send him staggering backwards, empty bottles and cardboard spilling to rattle around the ground. Not stopping, Doyle promptly moved on to the second, swinging with a hard closed fist. For a minute Gavin stood transfixed. Shit, where had he learned to fight like that? 

“Now,” a voice yelled, and he knew that voice, knew he had to obey it.

He had the cloth in his right hand and before he knew exactly what he was doing, had come up behind Doyle who was holding the third man by the throat and smashing his hand against the bricks by the door to loosen the knife in its grip. Doyle however sensed him approaching and started to turn, but with sheer dumb luck rather than any skill, Gavin managed to clamp the cloth across his face, helped somewhat by the lad with the knife, who flung himself around Doyle, momentarily pinning down his arms. 

He hadn’t a hope, would later wonder why he’d even tried. Doyle broke the lad’s hold easily, threw back his elbow and Gavin doubled over, gasping in shock and pain. Doyle then spun, furious, and a fist smashed across his jaw, lip spurting blood where he bit it. Christ the man had fists like rocks. Through a haze of pain he tried to breathe, he was done for, was going to be beaten to within an inch of his life. And he didn’t even know why they wanted him. But then Doyle unexpectedly staggered, sliding to the left against the brickwork, shaking his head.

“Quick, again, do it again,” the voice ordered urgently and Gavin looked up, eyes streaming, still trying to suck air into his diaphragm. Two of the men had recovered enough to pin Doyle against the wall, holding his arms down. Gavin still had hold of the cloth. Quickly, taking deep wet gulps he stumbled over, clamped the cloth in place long enough to see the eyes flutter, before Doyle wrenched his face away. 

“That’s it, hold him, hold him still.” 

It took a third man holding his head immobile for the cloth to finally do its job, the eyes closed and the slim frame slumped. One of the men caught him under the arms, held him half suspended.

“Good job,” Tony Femora said in satisfaction. “Get his feet, Dobbs.”

Gavin glanced at the cloth in his hands, the heady fumes making his own senses reel slightly. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Probably better you don’t know.” Femora answered and nodded at him. “Good job, Ramsden. I’ll remember it.”

Gavin sank back against the still open door as the men carried Doyle out of the side gate and along the narrow path that led to the street behind. He was shaking. The cloth was still in his hands, the rubbish from the split bag all over the small yard. Trying to stop his shaking, he began to clean up, hoping that he’d never again be obliged to do a favour for Tony Femora. 

 

***

Marty Martell had paid the driver and was just alighting from the dubious warmth of the interior when a silver Capri hared around the corner, nearly colliding with the parked taxi. The driver growled an obscenity, reaching for the door handle.

Marty arrested his movement with an outstretched hand. “Trust me, dear chap, you don’t want to mess with this one.”

The driver glanced across to see Bodie exit swiftly and agilely from the Capri, took in the width of his shoulders and the set expression visible in the lights from the pub and heeded Marty’s advice. He wound up the window and motored the taxi back to Commercial Road and on towards greater London, no doubt to pick up a safer fare.

“What have you got?” Bodie had reached his side, although his glance kept flicking to the pub and Marty knew his concern was for his partner. How Doyle had ever wormed his way into Bodie’s affection was a mystery to Marty, jealousy aside, but he had and now Bodie, through his own peculiar brand of loyalty, would keep him safe from harm, whether Doyle required it or not. And in Marty’s opinion, he did.

Pure habit had him surreptitiously looking around, although if anyone was out and about in this weather, at this time of night, he’d need his head read. 

“You asked me to look into Femora for you, if you remember,” he said, taking Bodie’s arm and leading him away from the pub. 

“Yeah.” Bodie glanced at the pub behind them again. “So what’d you find out?”

“The weapons he purchased off me for were self defence, he said. I’m inclined to agree, it was a small purchase, hardly worth bothering about.”

“Get on with it, Marty,” Bodie was impatient now. Inevitably. Whenever he was worried about that damn partner of his.

“His latest order was for something much bigger, a small grenade launcher, he said it had to be sufficient to destroy something about the size of a car or maybe a boat.” Marty glanced at Bodie, but as usual the agent was giving nothing away, the wind ruffling his hair gently as he gazed implacably at the pub lights. “But he pulled his order about an hour ago. Said he no longer wanted to deal with me.”

Bodie glanced back sharply at that.

“Yes dear boy, I rather suspect your partner’s been made.”

***

Gavin downed his third whiskey since cleaning up the yard and was eyeing old Henry wondering if he could shivvy the man out the door and close up early. He desperately wanted to go upstairs to bed and forget this day ever happened. Hands shaking, nerves shot, he reached again for the bottle, conscience prickling accusingly. He had no idea whatsoever what would happen to Ray or even, for that matter, whether the man actually deserved it and the thought that one day he might be held accountable for his part in the attack filled him with sick fear.

The front door slammed open, making him jump, scotch splashing from the bottle all over the counter top. A man appeared, hand inside his jacket, dark gaze murderously scanning the room before coming towards him with a fast stride. Gavin reared back, his spine jabbing into something sharp protruding from the counter behind him. 

He recognised the vision stalking towards him, although in a vastly different state to this present one. Before he’d been mellow, tipsy, half dozing over his drink in the booth, no real pattern to his visits. Harmless, Gavin had thought, a man down on his luck and looking for solitary company as so many did these days. God not now. Now he looked like the devil incarnate, eyes narrowed with anger and menace, he vaulted the counter, crowding Gavin up so that the sharp jabbing in his lower back escalated to full blown pain and his face came close, mean. 

“Where is he?” 

“What the hell…” As if he hadn’t had enough of a hard time already. “I don’t …”

“Where is Doyle? Ray Doyle?” The hands in his shirtfront pushed back unmercifully and Gavin gave a low groan of agony.

“Best answer him, dear boy,” said a new voice and Gavin saw another man come into view, laying his umbrella and briefcase casually on the counter and glancing speculatively at the row of whisky bottles behind them. “He’s not really in the mood for delays.”

“They took him, I don’t know where…” Gavin stammered out. “I don’t know anything.”

“When?” the man snarled. “How long ago? Who took him?”

“Tony Femora and his men, about an hour ago. I don’t know where they went, he said it would be better if I didn’t know, I swear.”

He was released suddenly, the pain in his lower back decreasing and he slumped, scared out of his wits. The man stepped back, scowling down at him, lips thin, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Gavin shrugged again, the shaking in his hands returning tenfold. “I don’t know, I don’t know anything, I just had to get him out in the yard out the back. They did the rest.”

“Which way did they go?” Bodie shouted. “Car? Make, model?”

“Car?” Gavin whispered trying to gather his scattered senses. “I didn’t hear a car… just voices. But no car…he’s probably still close by…”

But the man was already in motion, pushing past him and wrenching open the door to the small yard. Gavin clung to the counter for nearly a minute before he reached for the whisky bottle. 

***

CHAPTER 10

 

Safehouse Six was a relatively new acquisition near the Isle of Dogs and one that Special Branch had no current knowledge of. It was also, unfortunately, quite close to Wapping, where Tony Femora conducted his printing business. Cowley checked on the status of other CI5 safehouses, and found nearly all of them occupied. He weighed up the odds and then smiled. Where better to hide from a threat, than right under its nose. He would bet his pension that Femora would likely not think to look on his own doorstep for his quarry. He instructed Anson to take all precautions in delivering his charge there and remain with her until his arrival. 

Looking at the files on his desk, he spread the papers apart and gazed down at them. Try as he might, he could not understand why Tony Femora would be trying to kill Natasha De Souza, not over a mere battle for the docklands. Doyle was right in that Femora was small time, his one and only conviction years ago. Cowley had already delved into the incident. Femora had provided an alibi for a criminal and the subsequent police investigation had proven it false. So why go into politics? He’d never shown any interest before and he had lived in the area for some years. 

A brochure on the docklands development lay in amongst the Conservative propaganda that Betty had found for him. For Natasha De Souza to stand against her own party’s wishes in the development intrigued him. As did the Minister’s forbearance for this stand. He flipped open the brochure, saw the artist’s renditions of immaculate new apartments, gardens and pathways, the basins cleaned up and reutilised. Cowley had no opinion one way or the other to whether the development should go ahead but obviously there was a deeper issue than appeared on the surface, if indeed it was the source of the attacks against Natasha De Souza. He reached for the phone again. 

***

The print shop on the second floor was dark and deserted, but Bodie went up the stairs anyway arriving at the top to a locked door, lit by a single security light on the landing. Not bothering with lock picks, he simply removed his jacket, wrapped his hand in the leather protection and put his fist through the glass panel. Marty coming up much slower behind him stopped to watch, admiring, without even thinking about it, the broad back and the way it flexed against the blue shirt. Blue was definitely his colour, he mused, as Bodie used his free hand to lean through and flip the lock, mindful of the sharp shards still littering the framework. Although it quite suited Doyle as well, if he thought about it, Bodie’s partner having a penchant for blue denim, particularly snug fitting jeans. 

He watched Bodie push the door open and flick the light switch with the cool, calm and controlled efficiency he was known for, but Marty suspected it was all a mask. Fear for Doyle’s fate was still there, hidden beneath that professional exterior, a fear that he’d never before seen on the ex merc. Idly he wondered if Doyle had any idea of this privilege or it’s rarity. Marty had, after all, known Bodie far longer and in far more dire circumstances and had never earned it. Never would. Of course his unconventional inclinations could be responsible for being held at arm’s length, but he was more disposed to think that Bodie had seen something in Doyle, something that perhaps others, including himself, hadn’t. 

Listening to Bodie’s footsteps, hurried and sharp on the wooden floors as he began to search the place, he became aware of something else. A muffled noise coming from a room behind the printing press, a voice indistinct and insistent. Bodie had heard it as well and, drawing his weapon, crossed swiftly to the door. It was locked, some sort of storeroom by the look of it, or perhaps an office. He didn’t bother with the lockpicks here either, simply lifted his foot and kicked. Kicked again and the door flung inwards, rebounding off the inside with the force and nearly slamming shut again. It was dark in the room and a musty smell of ink and paper wafted out, fanned by the motion of the door.

Weapon held out in front of him, Bodie reached around the doorframe to search for a light switch. 

Marty caught the movement a split second after Bodie, a faint swish past the agent’s shoulder causing him to duck and swing the gun instantly around, finger whitening on the trigger. Marty had already braced himself for the loud retort of the weapon firing, but Bodie caught himself just in time and dropped his arm.

“Bloody hell,” he said in a fair mixture of exasperation and annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

Marty looked past him to see a middle aged woman brandishing a broom like a spear and blinking repeatedly as the light hit her full in the face. She was a mess, clothes and hair dishevelled and covered in black smears of ink.

“Oh, nice,” she replied tartly, dropping the broom and shading her eyes against the glare. “I wouldn’t be here at all if you were doing your job properly.”

As unlikely as it was to find any woman locked in a room in Tony Femora’s Printshop, Marty was somehow not surprised that Bodie knew this one. And even less that she didn’t overly care for him.

“Where’s Doyle?” Bodie demanded and there were no niceties, no greetings. Marty was fascinated, it seemed Bodie didn’t overly care for her either, but the woman, although still fizzing like a firecracker about to go off, was instantly diverted by that question.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, his cover’s been blown,” Bodie said shortly, which if anything, made the apparition in front of them bristle like a small bulldog. “And he’s missing. Do you know where he is?”

“Missing? When? Where? Why weren’t you looking after him?”

“My dear woman, a simple yes or no would suffice.” Marty interrupted, aware of Bodie tensing and assuming he would say something he would regret. “Do you where Doyle is or not?”

Her eyes narrowed on him with immediate dislike. “No, I don’t.” She cast that same look to Bodie, “Who’s he then?”

Bodie made a swift introduction and Martell gave a small mocking bow. Unsurprisingly it didn’t seem to impress the formidable woman in front of them. 

“What happened?” Bodie demanded.

“No idea. All I know was leaving the pub and a sack of some sort came over me head and I was brought here,” Marge’s brown eyes were furious. “Like the black hole of Calcutta in there, bulbs gone, couldn’t see a thing. You wait till I get my hands on him.”

“Tony Femora I assume,” Bodie’s voice was like ice. “Why did he lock you in here?”

“To keep me quiet, I expect.”

“Quiet about what?” Bodie growled menacingly. 

She looked evasive. “Well, he knows I’m friendly with CI5.”

“Which doesn’t quite explain why he’s taken Doyle, does it?” Marty drawled sarcastically. “Not if he just might have seen you two talking together and thought you were telling tales.”

“How do you know he has then?” she demanded guiltily. “Could have been anyone really, the amount of people you boys upset…”

“Call it a hunch,” Bodie snapped. “Where would he have taken him?”

“Somewhere far more secure,” Marty interjected, indicating the room that had held Marge Harper. “I’m rather inclined to think that your partner, for all his penchant for attracting trouble, is more than capable of breaking out of such a flimsy confinement as this and if Femora is in this up to his eyeballs like you think, he wouldn’t conduct his dirty business in his legitimate one.”

“He left me here,” Marge protested.

“Present company excluded,” Martell murmured recklessly. 

“Yeah, well all this conjecture isn’t helping us find him is it?” 

Oh yes, the fuse had well and truly ignited. Marty glanced at Bodie whose face showed increasing signs of exploding - not quite the short fuse that Doyle had, but capable of the same result, given time. 

“He owns property along the river, if that helps,” Marge volunteered acidly. “Some old warehouses at the end of the lane just here. Which you’d already know if you’d been doing your job.”

Bodie stalked off to the window to stare out over the roofs to the river, bracing both hands on the window sill and flexing his shoulders, no doubt holding in the diatribe he dearly wanted to let loose. Marty stared helplessly, drawn as surely as a moth to flame and just as ensnared. 

A sly voice spoke close to his ear. “Put your tongue back in, dear.” 

“Shut up, you old trollop,” Marty muttered and turned to follow Bodie, who was moving again, brushing past both of them without apology or explanation to thunder back down the stairs to the street.

He found the agent rummaging around in the boot of the Capri, the wind tugging on his clothes, although the rain had ceased for the time being. 

“Here,” he shoved a torch at Martell and flicked his own on. “Marge stay here.”

“I’m not staying….”

Bodie swung around to face her, and Marty saw the old Bodie, the Bodie he had known in Africa. 

Marge evidently saw it as well because she immediately ceased her protest and instead walked to the passenger side of the car. “You just find him, you hear?”

Bodie didn’t answer, busy pocketing ammunition.

“You think he’s around here somewhere? In one of his warehouses?” Martell tilted the torch up, looking for the button. “Surely Femora wouldn’t be that foolish.”

“He took Doyle down to the docks when he wanted muscle for whatever he’s up to. He seemed to know them well, so I’d say Marge is right. There are a lot of empty buildings down there, old containers, crates. Perfect to hide…”

He stopped abruptly, choking on the last words and Martell took pity on him, refraining from pointing out that there was also the Thames, oily and deep, which was a far better place to dump a body, especially on a receding tide. Instead he simply tapped the torch on and followed as Bodie set off at a run. The docks were eerily deserted, as you’d expect at this time of night, although it would have been far more heartening if there had been activity, a sign that Doyle might not yet be dead. 

“God, he could be anywhere,” Bodie said, looking at the empty warehouses with their smashed windows and dark shadows and then along the length of the wharf itself before his gaze moved almost reluctantly to the siren’s call of water lapping against the ancient timbers under the dock. His revulsion was almost as palpable as his fear as he moved to the edge, leaning over to shine the torch into the black depths.

Marty heaved a sigh. He’d always suspected Raymond Doyle would come to a sticky end one day, but drowning in the Thames wasn’t quite the way he’d imagined it. And killing him right here would throw a considerable amount of suspicion on the source of their investigation, something Bodie, if not for his current worry, would certainly have thought of. A wiser man would spirit him away, far from his own patch and yet Femora hadn’t, not if the barman was to be believed. Marty rather thought he was telling the truth, it’d take a braver man than Gavin Ramsden to stand up to the likes of Bodie in full assault.

In that case… Marty looked behind him, to the row of broken buildings edging the wharf. If Femora hadn’t killed him and it would be foolish to do so, the logical conclusion would be to assume he was still alive, at least until Femora had the means to get rid of him in a far less incriminating method. And if he were alive he’d be secured somehow. Securing Ray Doyle wasn’t an easy thing, as Marty knew from first hand experience, especially a furious Ray Doyle, so he would have to be stashed somewhere safe from chance discovery. 

The dark was a definite hindrance and he was careful as he picked his way across the wet, rotting wharf to the first of the old warehouses. The neon glow from the city lit up the heavy clouds, reflecting just enough light that it wasn’t completely dark and he shone his torch across the old brickwork. The bars on the lower windows had prevented the glass they protected from being smashed completely but small holes caused by thrown stones peppered the surface randomly. Children no doubt, but it was the doors he was interested in. Moving gradually along he soon found the doors, the big heavy double sort of a bygone era, with a heavy chain and padlock securing them, old and rusted from the salt of the river. It obviously hadn’t been opened in years, in fact he was reasonably sure chain cutters would be the only way to get in. He moved on to the next building observing much the same method of security. The third building however was different. The windows were boarded up behind the bars, at least on the lower floors and the chain preventing access was newer, gleaming softly in the light. He turned to where Bodie was hanging off the side the wharf, shining his torch underneath, trying to see around marine encrusted pilings. 

“Bodie dear chap, what do you make of this?”

Bodies’ head snapped up and looked across, before the angle of the torch hid him in darkness again, but there was enough reflected light to show his silhouette get swiftly to his feet and stride powerfully across the wharf with scant regard to safety, the small beam of light bobbing erratically ahead of him. 

He came up beside him and Marty could feel the warmth from his clothes, smell his faint aftershave and he inhaled with a pleasure that was entirely inappropriate to the situation. 

“Knock it off, Marty,” Bodie shone the torch on the padlock, noting the state and dug in his pocket. 

Offended, Marty moved slightly away and stared back out over the river wondering why he had the misfortune to be constantly attracted to men who were not only as straight as a ruler, but also rude and uncouth. His mother always said to stay away from the bad boys. He really should have listened to her.

It didn’t take Bodie long to spring the mechanism. He pulled the chain from the handles and went to work on the lock to the doors. This was somewhat harder, requiring Marty to shine his torch on the keyhole, and Bodie swore softly as he wriggled the tool until it gave a faint click. Leaning against the frame, he pushed it open, listening intently. Highly conscious of the fact he wasn’t armed. Marty wisely moved out of the firing line and waited, alert. Bodie glanced at him once in question and Marty nodded, readying himself as Bodie went into action, springing into a crouch into the opening, arms extended, torch gripped in his left hand, wrist crossed over the 9mm clenched in his right, throwing light in the general direction of the aim. 

It was as silent as a tomb.

Peering around the doorframe with his own torch, Marty saw that most of the interior had been stripped bare but for the large supporting posts and crossbeams of oak rising into the darkness. Scattered randomly on the floor were dark shapes and bundles, mostly boxes and crates of some sort. Creeping forward, Bodie flicked the beam into the corners, weapon gripped tightly just under the torch, where the light went, the barrel followed it. 

“Stay behind me,” he muttered.

Marty didn’t need telling twice. Consciously aware of his slightly superior height, he positioned himself behind Bodie and let the agent take the lead.

Making wide sweeps with the beam Bodie moved warily inside, pausing every now and then as unidentifiable objects loomed out of the darkness, until the light picked out a shape lying neatly on top of one of the crates, a familiar figure and a flash of blue denim. Bodie swung the torch back and they both caught the red tartan of a carelessly draped scarf. Next minute the beam was skewing all over the place as Bodie pelted across the dusty floor. Marty hurried after him.

Doyle was laid out on his back on top of the crate, legs and arms straight, like a corpse on an autopsy table. He was not bound in any way, which wasn’t a good sign under the circumstances and Bodie’s face was stricken as he reached his side. 

“Ray?” He lifted the curly head, got no response and in agitation searched for a pulse at the neck. Marty could see his face, chalk white. Saw him waiting, as though holding his breath, and then the visual relief as he felt it. 

“Ray, come on sunshine, snap out of it!” He lifted Doyle’s head again, tapped his cheeks lightly, but there was no response at all from the fallen agent.

“Hurt?” Marty queried, angling his torch down long, denim encased legs.

“No, drugged or something.” Bodie muttered tersely, patting his partner down briskly for injury. 

Marty shone his own torch back over the slim frame but Doyle appeared to be unharmed, just unconscious. He moved slightly away, checking the surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary except for… he reached for the paper bag and aimed the beam of light inside. A couple of cans of coke, some wrapped sandwiches and an apple. Marty frowned and showed the bag to Bodie.

“I don’t get it,” Bodie said, perplexed.

***

The Isle of Dogs skyline was barely visible against the lowering western sun as Cowley finally pulled up at the premises, situated near the end of a row of old working class terrace homes. Numbers 22, 24 and 26 were missing however, and had been since a Luftwaffe bomb dropped neatly down a chimney one dark September night in 1940, and for the most part, the rest were boarded up against vandalism while awaiting the development promised by the Docklands Corporation. War damage still scarred the area, but the general feel of neglect and piles of rubble escaping from the closed docks that surrounded them was worse. He caught a shadow at the net curtains and knew Anson had seen him. The door opened before he reached it and Anson nodded, holstering his handgun and gesturing him in. Natasha De Souza was sitting in the bare, but comfortable front room, arms folded, foot tapping impatiently. 

“I cannot work from here,” she said as soon as Cowley entered the room.

“You can’t work if you are dead either,” Cowley said mildly. “And until then, it’s my job to keep you alive.”

The safehouses were well stocked and Cowley knew where to find the scotch bottle. The kitchen light was on, steam rising gently from the kettle. He returned, offering the bottle to her but she refused with an annoyed shake of her head. He poured a measure into a glass and threw it down, then poured another.

“I’ve been reading on the Conservative Party’s policies for Tower Hamlets, should you get elected,” he stated, sitting opposite her. Her eyes flicked to him warily. “Why do you oppose the docklands development? It’s against your own party’s preference.”

“Because there is no guarantee that the people will not be outpriced from their homes,” she replied, gazing frankly at him. “This proposed development, it will make this a much sought after area, attract the wealthy. You think development will not increase rents in the area, exceed the current living conditions? Where will the people go?” She swept an arm out, encompassing the surrounding street. “The ones that have lived here for generations defying poverty, a war, even their own Government, to keep their homes? I will tell you, Mr Cowley. Eviction.”

Cowley studied her. “You speak as if from personal experience.”

Coolly she replied, “My job shows me many injustices in the world.”

Behind him, Anson shifted at the window. Cowley was aware of it, as he was aware of everything in the room. He waited a minute, but Anson didn’t move again. “The Minister thinks highly of you.”

Her gaze remained coolly on him. “That is his prerogative.”

“Highly enough to want you in the Home Office.”

Still that clear gaze stayed on him. “I am unsure what this line of questioning has to do with someone wanting to kill me.”

“Don’t you?” Cowley sensed Anson drawing his weapon. A slight noise came from outside.

“Get down,” he ordered and didn’t wait to be obeyed, he leaned forward, causing agony to shoot up his bad leg, and pulled Miss De Souza physically to the floor.

 

***

It was clear that Doyle was incapable of coming around and fortunately Bodie had come to the same conclusion. He shoved his weapon into the waistband of his dark cords and simply leaned forward to heft Doyle up and over his shoulder. Marty watched him stagger just slightly, Doyle plainly weighing more than his appearance implied and then set off back to the entrance. The fresh rain scented air was welcome after the mustiness of the warehouse and Marty breathed in deeply, glad to be out in the open. He waited uneasily while Bodie paused in the doorway, the sinister dark shapes on the abandoned wharf unnerving. Bodie seemed impervious to any sort of threat however. He was busy trying to balance Doyle, and hold the torch at the same time, while using his free hand to adjust his gun to within easy reach in his waistband, a feat only accomplished by fumbling the button of his cords open to allow extra room. Marty watched amused, debating whether or not to offer a hand and wisely deciding against it.

The torch flickered randomly during this one handed struggle, illuminating the wharf and then the warehouse wall, the beam flitting like a firefly across the brickwork as Bodie grasped Doyle’s legs more firmly, low voiced curses barely audible over the lapping of the water. The erratically weaving light didn’t go unnoticed however, as voices were suddenly heard, raised in alarm. Bodie instantly brought the beam back under control and peered downriver through the darkness, trying to pinpoint the source. 

“Might be a good idea to get out here, old boy,” Marty advised politely. “I’m not armed and your partner is at a distinct disadvantage.”

For a minute he thought Bodie would ignore him, put Doyle down and go off to investigate, but after a moment’s hesitation, caution prevailed and he set off back to the lane leading to the main street where the car was parked. Like a pack of dogs the unseen men followed. Doyle’s cumbersome weight, the dark and the hazardous rotting surface slowed them down considerably, allowing the pursuers, five or so, judging by the voices, to close in. For all that Marty dealt in weaponry, he was more of the self preservation type when it came to conflict and if there was to be a gunfight of any sort, he wanted no part of it. He shone his torch on Doyle, dangling uselessly over Bodie’s shoulder, saw his curls rippling madly in the wind and rain, which had picked up the minute they left the shelter of the buildings, then glanced back. One man was visible now, far ahead of the rest, running with reckless speed over the dangerous surface. 

“Go, go, go,” Marty urged, pushing Bodie ineffectively in the shoulder but the agent was already moving as fast as he could, negotiating the wet uneven surface and gaping holes with admirable agility. 

They had nearly made it to the end of the timbered section, when the shouts turned jubilant. Bodie instinctively tried to turn around and Doyle’s weight slipped, provoking a low expletive. Marty reached out, tried to help, attempted to push the unconscious agent into a more stable position but the running footsteps were right behind them and he pushed too hard. Off balance, Bodie staggered, misplaced his footing just as the first pursuer arrived and latched onto his arm, as though to spin him around. Marty quickly dodged aside as Bodie fell, his burden sprawling precariously close to the water’s edge. Bodie yelped in alarm and quickly reached out, snagging the hem of Doyle’s jacket as his partner flopped half over the edge. 

The dark figure carried on his assault, swinging his leg back for a kick and Marty clearly heard the thump as it connected with unprotected ribs. Bodie’s yelp turned into a pained grunt but he managed to keep his grip tight, effectively halting his partner’s tumble into the river. Marty searched the planking under their feet, looking for something to help, some sort of weapon. He could hear Doyle’s jacket straining, the material giving way, but Bodie had felt it as well. Stretching back with his left hand, he caught the boot as it swung for a second attempt and pushed back with enough force that the assailant stumbled. His right hand let go of it’s tenuous grip on Doyle jacket and instead hooked into the waistband of his jeans, hauling back, bringing Doyle’s upper half back on to solid ground. 

The assailant was back, growling in rage, reaching down to grab Bodie by the neck. Bodie gave another heave of Doyle’s jeans, got his partner to relative safety and then rolled over, grasping the man by the arms. He continued his momentum, bringing his legs up, kicking strongly and the man, with a surprised yell, went sailing past Bodies’ prone position and over the side of the dock ending in a very satisfying splash in the filthy waters of the Thames. Bodie rolled to his feet, hand grasping his side and Marty hoped to God his ribs weren’t broken, but he moved nimbly enough.

“There’s more coming,” he said tersely moving quickly to his partner. “Help me get him up.”

Marty glanced back down the wharf, saw indistinct figures approaching in the dark and reached for Doyle, but the slim agent moved, gave a slight moan, he was coming round. Marty thanked whatever gods watched over CI5 agents and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up to a sitting position. Between them, they hauled Doyle up but he wasn’t yet able to stand. His head lolled back, his knees gave out and Bodie had no choice but to sling him back over his shoulder. 

“Bloody…hell, Bodie,” a voice came faintly from the level of Bodie’s waist, almost incomprehensible.

“Not now, mate,” Bodie’s voice was harsh as they left the last of the crumbling wharf for the lane back to the main road. “I’m a bit busy.” 

Marge was waiting, standing beside the open passenger door, face anxious as they arrived. Marty had nearly forgotten all about her.

“Your radio’s been beeping,” she said, taking in the situation with one glance and with considerable presence of mind flicked the front seat forward to insert herself into the back, scooting over to make room. 

Marty with a quick look at Doyle’s uncoordinated form and then at the lane way to the river, slipped in after her and jerked the lever to put the seat back into position. Bodie lowered Doyle to his feet, holding onto his arms. His partner was struggling to keep his eyes open, voice slurring. “What’s… going… on?”

“In the car, sunshine,” Bodie pushed and Doyle’s legs gave out as they hit the edge of the foot well. He fell into the passenger seat, Bodie tucked his legs in after him and slammed the door, hurrying around to the driver’s side. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Marge demanded, leaning forward to prevent Doyle slumping into the gear stick. 

Marty looked out of the rear window for signs of pursuit. “It appears that he has been drugged, dear lady.” 

Bodie dropped into the drivers seat and turned the ignition, the engine roaring smoothly to life. Spinning the wheel, he dropped the clutch and the Capri shot forwards, windscreen wipers flapping madly. Steering one handed, he reached over, changed gear and picked up the mic.

“3.7 to base, over.”

“ _Come in 3.7_ ,”

“Patch me through to Alpha.”

“ _Negative 3.7, Alpha not responding, location safe house six_.”

Bodie swore, grappling the wheel and the mic at the same time, sending the car into a quick right turn. “On our way. Keep trying base, over.”

He floored the accelerator dropped the mic back into its cradle and reached to push Doyle upright. “Come on mate, time to wake up.” A quick glance back at Marge. “See if you can bring him round, we’re going to need him.”

“I’m awake,” Doyle protested and promptly slammed into the dashboard as Bodie hit the brakes at the intersection. 

Great, Marty thought sourly. A half drugged agent, a middle aged waspish woman and a gorgeous ex merc who was hell bent on taking them all into trouble. He looked out at the rain slashing against the windows. As if his night just couldn’t get any better.

 

***

CHAPTER 11 

Cranes faintly blocked the city lights on the other side of the river and he could hear faint music coming from several streets behind them, where a sleazy pub was still in business. Cowley looked cautiously out of the window at the dark street although he was confident that he wouldn’t be seen with the interior lights out. Whoever had cut the power had also cut the phone lines, a sure sign that they meant business. Anson was outside investigating the disturbance, had been gone for some time and Cowley was worried. How had they been located? The only people that knew where the candidate had been taken were Anson and himself. 

Maybe Anson had been followed, but he dismissed that almost immediately, his operatives were better trained than that. Part of his mind pondered the problem while keeping an eye out for movement. Something about this vendetta against Natasha De Souza just didn’t seem right. Hadn’t from the beginning. There was no true motive, no real commitment, just these random incidents as though deliberately designed to keep his department busy, keep him busy. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened - a secondary motive, a target disguised. His eyes scanned the street, looking for movement, for threat, for anything that appeared out of the ordinary. It was dark though, no moon, heavy clouds and not nearly enough natural light to see properly, although the rain had eased briefly. At least until the next squall came through.

But there, four doors up, was that a shadow moving? He squinted, but it was too dark. Where the devil was Anson? The distant noise of a motor reached him, brakes squealing in protest. The shadow seemed to shift, elongate but before it could take clear form, headlights swung wildly into the street, the throaty roar of a finely tuned Capri accompanying it. Jackknifing erratically as the corner was taken too fast, it accelerated swiftly to the front of the house before screeching to a smoky halt. The car doors were swung wildly open. Doyle came out of the passenger seat like a bullet, weapon drawn, but Cowley sensed something not quite right, a slight clumsiness that Doyle rarely showed in action. Bodie had simultaneously exited his side, leaning down to the lever to tilt the seat. To Cowley’s surprise a woman exited, as fast as her heels allowed, followed by a tall man in a dapper black trench coat, both scurrying to the front door. He recognised them both immediately and abandoned the window just as a loud thumping announced their arrival. What on earth were they doing here? Moving swiftly to open it, he was confronted by a singularly devilish smile on a handsome lean face.

“Ding, Dong, Avon calling,” Bodie stepped aside to allow Margery Harper and Martin Martell access. 

“What are they doing here?” Cowley snapped.

“Well, they needed a lift and as I was going their way...” 

“Bodie!” Cowley began but got no further, neatly cut off by a murderous spray of bullets across the door above him, splintering the wood and littering the doorstep and entry with shards of wood. 

Next minute he was flat on his back, Bodie having taken him down, his leg screaming and his breath gone. His agent was unrepentant, however, simply twisted quickly to look behind him, “Ray?”

But Doyle, bent double, had already followed him in, stumbling slightly at the threshold and ricocheting off the wall. Another sweep of gunfire took out the window in the front parlour. 

“What the devil is wrong with him?” Cowley demanded over the racket, witnessing Doyle’s somewhat lethargic and erratic progress. 

Slamming the door shut, Bodie flipped the lock, a redundant move considering the window was now a jagged mess, allowing wind and rain - not to mention the odd spray of bullets - to enter, then took his arm to help him up.

“Doyle? Oh he’s just finding his sea legs.” At Cowley’s glare he conceded to elaborate. “Tony Femora slipped him a Mickey Finn.” 

“This house has been compromised,” Cowley scrambled forwards, away from the entry and the deadly gunfire. 

“So it’s serious, then?” Bodie glanced at the bullet ridden wall above them before removing his Hi Power from its holster to check it. 

“Tch,” Cowley gave an impatient grimace at Bodie’s black humour, inappropriate to the severity of the situation, although he understood it. His men lived their lives under a constant possibility of death and sometimes it was the only way to stay sane. Whatever was wrong with Doyle would have to wait, but if Bodie was confident that his partner could hold up his end, then Cowley wasn’t going to argue. 

“Miss De Souza’s in the back room, get her,” he ordered and Bodie immediately ducked back across the darkened hallway. Cowley peered through the broken glass in the parlour looking for his missing agent, a small part of him not concerned with the current situation, hoping Anson was all right. The street was dark, but not so dark that he didn’t catch furtive movement from various points in darkened doorways on the other side. Men, several of them. His mouth tightened. Compromised was an understatement. How the hell had they been found? And then he caught sight of something so alarming that he doubted his vision for a minute. The shape of it, the colour, he was spinning abruptly and dashing back towards the rear of the house.

“Doyle, Bodie” he bellowed, “Out, everyone out, grenades!”

Doyle was already rushing Martell and Marge through the kitchen to the rear of the house. Bodie reappeared from the darkened back room. “She’s not there,” he told Cowley shortly. 

“What the devil… I told her to stay…” Cowley moved towards the room, only to be brought up short by a muffled thud behind him, as though something heavy had struck the carpet through the broken window.

They looked at each other, identical expressions of consternation. Both military, they knew that sound, knew what it was, but it was Bodie that voiced the very heartfelt, “Bloody Hell.”

As one they turned and rushed to the kitchen door, almost getting jammed in the frame until Bodie twisted sideways, pushing him through first and stumbling after. Cowley swore as his hip hit the kitchen table, the lack of light impeding his progress. Doyle was at the back door, Walther in right hand, scanning the yard.

“Hurry!” Cowley urged, counting under his breath, how many seconds had it been? A sniper was the least of their worries now.

Doyle scampered across to the rear wall, separating the garden from the one behind. Cowley chivvied Martell and Marge after him, with Bodie bringing up the rear. 

Doyle leapt, grasping the edge of the wall, hauled himself up and twisted half around so he was sitting awkwardly on the rim. Leaning down, he gestured to the house. “Where is she then? Miss De Souza?”

“Here,” a voice said breathlessly. 

They all turned to see the Conservative candidate appear from where she’d been crouched, sheltering between the corner of an old coal shed and the wall. Cowley stared at her, what the devil was she doing out here. She appeared distressed, no, he amended watching her take a deep calming breath, she was excited. An excitement that contained a hint of chagrin. Before he had time to question it, a deafening boom came from the house they had just left, an orange fireball illuminating the walls and yards of the remaining houses. A wave of hot air streamed past them and they all ducked in reflex, all except Doyle who toppled off his perch to the empty garden on the other side. 

“Doyle?” Bodie called, once the air had settled into a crackling, splintering hum from burning house. 

“Yeah?” the invisible Doyle shouted from the other side of the brickwork and next minute he was back, scrabbling up effortlessly to straddle the wall and lean down. “Send them up.”

“Come on, Marge, over you go,” Bodie encouraged, cupping his hands in front of her and stooping slightly. 

Marge looked at his hands and then up at Doyle perched on the wall, arms extended to reach down. “Ooh, I’m not sure about this, lover.”

Cowley moved to her other side. “We don’t have much time, Mrs Harper, please do as Bodie says.”

A sudden burst of gunfire from behind them had Marge hurriedly putting her foot into Bodie’s. He hoisted her up and Doyle grasped her arms, hauling her awkwardly to get one leg over the wall. She half fell into the rear garden and Natasha De Souza followed unhesitatingly. Immensely aware of the target Doyle presented outlined on the wall, Cowley fidgeted, although the likelihood of anyone getting through the burning remains of the house was remote. 

Martell went over the wall somewhat easier than the women and then it was his turn. Swiftly he put his foot in Bodie’s cupped hands and was hoisted to the top of the wall where Doyle steadied him, allowing him to drop without jarring his leg. Bodie hauled himself over without help and they were in the rear garden of the backing property. Fortunately the house was no longer there, likely another casualty of the war, it was now just a square piece of overgrown littered land, hemmed in by the walls of the two houses either side, walls that still bore the outlines of the rooms etched into the brickwork. The rain started again, blowing madly in all directions by the squalls.

Doyle was already up ahead, weapon drawn, moving easily through the wet grass. The crackling of the fire was dying down, over it they could hear the sound of cars, of raised voices. Only one street light was working and it was further up towards the noise of the pub. The revving of a motor was growing louder.

“Stay together,” Cowley ordered, “and do as Doyle and Bodie tell you, no matter what.”

Screeching tyres abruptly split the air and a car came sliding out of the distant crossroads in a cloud of burning rubber. It was black with dark windows and bright headlights. For a minute it swung wildly as the driver over corrected, but then straightened up and accelerated towards them. A muzzle protruding from the passenger window spat fire and bullets thudded into the wall of the house adjoining the spare block, chipping away at bricks and mortar. 

“Down,” Bodie yelled, “Everyone.”

They all dropped low, pressing against the wet grass. Gunfire was returned, both Doyle and Bodie snapping off round after round, but their handguns were clearly inadequate. 

“You should be helping them,” Marge screamed at Martell, but the debonair gunrunner just looked at her coolly. “I could stab them with my umbrella if you wish, dear lady.”

No love lost there, then, Cowley thought and ducked instinctively as the car swerved again, momentarily stopping the automatic fire.

“This way,” Doyle yelled and Cowley looked up, saw where he was pointing. A narrow lane, too narrow for the car. They pelted across the road as fast as they were able. 

“Quick,” Doyle almost pushed everyone through the walkway, then covered Bodie who was still firing at the car. He ducked through at the last minute as the car overshot the lane and screeched to a halt. 

The lane was pitch black and empty, any illumination long gone. Feeling his way along the wall, Cowley instinctively headed towards the faint sound of music. His men were helping the women, hurrying them. He’d give a lot for an R/T right about now, but Bodie had left his in the Capri. They were on their own. Cowley turned into another lane and then through a very narrow alley between two darkened houses. The music was louder now, he could see lights glowing over the rooftops. He turned behind to gesture his armed agents to move forward. 

“Make sure it’s safe,” he instructed them and watched as they branched out, each taking a side of the street. 

“There they are,” the voice was shockingly loud, had a slight accent and was immediately answered by the spout of Doyle’s 38, the flash from the barrel bright in the darkness. More yells, a shout of pain and return fire. Bodie covered his partner, weapon firing methodically as Doyle backed away, reached the relative safety of another corner. Bodie looked back from his position, beckoned them to follow. The road was curved here and they hurried along it, but the pursuit seemed to have ceased for the moment and a good job too, Cowley thought. Both women struggling now, breath loud in the wet air, heels clattering far too loudly on the cobbled bricks for Cowley’s liking and even he was starting to feel a slow burn in his lungs. 

He saw Bodie glance back, shared his look of worry. They couldn’t run much further, they had to find somewhere safe, somewhere they wouldn’t be found until they could get back up. Another alley opened up and both agents, unhappy with the openness of the street, headed towards it. Cowley followed quickly, leading the rest into another darkened lane. No-one followed them. Hopefully they’d managed to shake off their attackers and could slow down a bit. But as they came to the end of the alley, it opened to a small closed in yard. Some of the windows now had lights, residents inside, out of the appalling weather and watching telly, oblivious to the drama unfolding outside. Cowley was loathe to disturb them, not only would it put the residents in danger, but it was unlikely in this poor neighbourhood that a phone would be available. The pub wasn’t that far away as evidenced by the dim glow of neon lights surrounding it and he could hear My Sharona being belted out at top volume. But in this maze of back alleys and small closes, getting nearer to its dubious safety was proving difficult. There was unexpected movement in the yard though. A man, leaning drunkenly with one hand on the wall, the other at his hips and his gaze was directed downwards to a shadow cowering against the wall. Cowley heard Bodie hiss, a furious indrawn breath of pure anger and then his lethal agent was across the yard, hauling the man around by his shoulder.

“What? What the hell are you…” the man staggered, obviously well under the influence and Cowley caught sight of a small figure crouching at his feet. Bodie’s fist shot out and the drunk fell like a stone. Bodie turned back to the boy, for a boy he surely was, small and skinny with a shock of fair hair tumbling down over a thin face.

“What’d you do that for?” an indignant voice whined. “That was five quid, that was.”

“How old are you?” Bodie snarled and the boy froze for a second, eyes huge as he considered the question. Doyle walked over and glanced down shrewdly.

“He’s older than he looks,” he looked the kid over, consideringly. “Sixteen? Seventeen?” 

“Couldn’t be,” Bodie scoffed in disbelief. 

“Don’t you believe it,” Doyle said lazily, “That’s his bread and butter, that is, he’s not going to let on.” He reached out and gestured impatiently, “Come on, give it over.”

“What,” the whine was now accompanied by darting eyes, looking for escape. “I ain’t got nothing.”

“You weren’t doing this for five quid, now hand it over.”

Cowley crossed the yard to stand in front of the boy. He could sympathise with Bodie for the lad indeed looked all of ten but he had more faith in Doyle’s street smart upbringing and was inclined to believe his assessment. Both his men still held their weapons and perhaps it was that, combined with their hard expressions, that finally had the boy proffering up his prize. A brown, somewhat worn leather wallet. Doyle took it off him, turned and dropped it on the man, still flat on his back and beginning to snore.

Cowley looked the boy over intently, a boy who probably lived nearby and would know his way through this maze. “What’s your name?”

“Raphael,” The boy’s expression changed again, becoming coy, softer, younger. He kicked at the stones at his feet with well worn scuffed trainers, hunching his shoulders like a whipped puppy.

Cowley was intrigued. The lad could have been an actor such was his ability to change tactics without batting an eyelash. Doyle wasn’t fooled though. He cuffed the kid lightly against his head. “Your real name.” 

The boy rubbed it, frowning and looked up sullenly.

“Just your name and maybe a wee bit of help.” Cowley added, mindful of pursuit, of the time being wasted with this boy who could either help them or just as easily point them out to anyone who came along looking for them. “Could be some monetary recompense if you cooperate.”

“Eh?” Bafflement accompanied the frown.

“Means you’ll get more than five quid if you help,” Doyle translated. 

The eyes brightened, returned to studying him shrewdly and Cowley had a thought Doyle was indeed right. This was no boy. Whatever he saw though, it appeared to help him make up his mind and he abruptly decided to cooperate. 

“All right. Davy. Davy Jones,” he added a flamboyant bow to the introduction, “At your service.”

There was a snort of disbelief from Martell and Bodie exchanged a look of cynical mirth with Doyle. “Well, I’m a believer.”

“It’s true,” the boy said furiously. “That’s my name. David Sebastian Jones.”

“All right, Davy,” Cowley said kindly. It really didn’t matter after all. “Some men are looking for us. And we’d rather not be found. Can you lead us out of here?”

“Are you coppers?” the boy asked suspiciously, eyeing Doyle’s Walther with a look of envy. 

“Not quite,” Cowley said.

He received a skeptical look. “Well if you say so ‘guv, how much it’s worth then?”

“We’ll discuss that, once we are in the clear,” Cowley said firmly. “Lead on, we are rather pressed for time.”

“And we’d rather not get our heads shot off while you make up your mind,” Doyle added in a much harder tone. 

Another suspicious stare before he grudgingly capitulated. “All right. Come with me.”

“Doyle…” Cowley tilted his head, and his operative, Walther still held ready, moved to the lad’s side. Bodie remained at the rear, alert to pursuit.

They had barely stepped back into the lane though, when Doyle pushed Davy flat against the wall and held up his hand, halting their progress. Glancing back at Bodie he held up two fingers and wriggled them. Bodie nodded and moved forward, Inglis up and ready. Cowley knew the signal, Doyle wanted them to wait here, while he checked something out. He disappeared and they waited. 

“Here,” Marge put in, not happy, “No one offered to recompense me for my help.”

“That’s because no one asked for your help,” Martell told her.

Marge gazed haughtily at the gunrunner, “And that lout asked for yours? Did you tell him there were strings attached?”

“Well if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Quiet,” Cowley hissed, fed up with the both of them.

Doyle had returned silently to Bodie’s side, looking curiously at Cowley. He tilted his head to his partner.

“Marge wants you to recompense her,” Bodie duly reported.

“Yeah?” Doyle slid his gaze across to Martell. “You first, sunshine.”

“Well,” Cowley asked quickly, before Bodie could reply.

“A group of them on the next corner, looking for a street sign by the sound of it,” Doyle answered.

What again? Cowley was justifiably annoyed. In this maze of empty backstreets and dark silent houses, no one could possibly know where they had gone. It was as though they were leaving a trail. Breadcrumbs, for anyone to follow. He stopped at that thought and slowly turned around, looking at the soaked and shivering little group behind him. Marge was looking angry, Martell fed up. But Natasha, Miss De Souza… she had her hand on the gold cross at her throat, murmuring to herself in what sounded like a prayer. A target disguised?

“Although I couldn’t be sure.” Doyle added. “They were speaking Spanish.” He looked at Cowley, then turned a meaningful gaze on Miss De Souza who abruptly ceased praying and dropped her hand. Bodie sniffed, a typical Bodie sniff, and looked at his partner. Something silent passed between them, Cowley couldn’t begin to guess what, but his operatives had been communicating this way ever since he’d partnered them. It was a rare thing, an extremely valuable thing and it had saved both their hides on more than one occasion. Doyle raised his brows and then bent close to Davy’s ear, the pair of them whispering. The youth nodded, turned and reversed his direction.

Doyle paused as they passed, voice low. “He says he has a different route, it’s longer but will bring us out near some shops with a phone booth.”

“Indeed.” Cowley’s thoughts returned to his breadcrumbs and the men with Spanish accents following them. Did Miss De Souza have enemies from her father’s country here in the UK? Possibly. But there were other possibilities as well, possibilities that were starting to turn more into probabilities. In the distance he could hear sirens, someone must have reported the house on fire. He had a thought to backtrack to the house, but it would likely lead to innocent men being shot. Whoever was after them, appeared to be serious in their determination to eliminate the young woman by his side. Or were they? A nagging doubt persisted, again that strong feeling of being played. He glanced at her again as they made their way down a different path, so narrow they had to go single file. The previous attempts to assassinate her were laughingly inept when compared to the ruthless ability of the group currently dogging their every move.

Disconcertingly, Davy led them away from the pub’s bright lights down several more narrow lanes and further into the neglected area bordering the docks, where it was even more deserted and dark.

Both Bodie and Doyle stalked the outside of the group, weapons drawn, reflexes honed to a sharp edge. Cowley was reassured by their tactics. They were two of his best men, although he wouldn’t admit it to the pair. Different, och could you ever get two men so different? But they worked together like a well oiled machine, in spite of it. Then Bodie stopped. Held up his hand. “Listen,” he commanded. 

Cowley turned slowly and then he heard it. The unmistakable sound of a car, the screeching tyres instantly recognisable. 

“Here they come again,” Bodie warned unnecessarily. 

Doyle was still by the lad’s side. He looked down. “You got anywhere to hide down here?”

“This way,” Davy said breathlessly, switching direction yet again. 

The residential buildings abruptly ended at the perimeter of land designated to the now abandoned wharves. A large overgrown carpark surrounded a half demolished warehouse, several walls still towering to the sky, shattered windows showing empty rooms. Numerous smaller buildings in various states of disrepair were dotted here and there around a rusted structure that once held a crane. In the distance he could see the massive steel frame of a gasometer. It was deceivingly open, but with far too many concealed spots for Cowley’s liking and he could sense both his men unhappy with the location as well. 

Davy stopped finally in front a mess of jumbled bricks and mortar, a broken high wire fence surrounding it. It looked uninviting, dark, damp and thoroughly eerie. There was a narrow opening where the fence had been torn away. The lad crouched down, crawled through the fence and without hesitation Doyle followed, 38 still in his fist. Cowley ducked down, only just avoiding the jagged ends of the wire before standing up on the inside of the fence as Bodie helped the others through. 

“Down here,” the youth sidled a little to the left, alongside the blackened stones and stopped. Another narrow gap, and Cowley was surprised to see steps descending into the earth, like an old coal chute. Although Davy showed no hesitation at all, Doyle was far more cautious, holding him back to descend slightly ahead, gun extended. Cowley didn’t blame him. So far, their pursuers had little difficulty in ascertaining where they were and a set up had also crossed his mind. The steps led to a cellar, a fairly big one made of the same blackened stone as the walls above ground. 

Cowley’s first impressions were of a paraffin lamp burning on a large box and a small fire in an enormous fireplace. Some sort of pallet in front of the fireplace held a bundle of rags, lumpy and filthy and in a corner, a girl had risen to her feet, breathing harshly and shifting nervously. Her black hair was cut in a spiky Mohawk, shaved over ears containing a variety of metal adornments including safety pins and a razor blade, which winked in the meagre light. Her clothing was a mismatched mess of denim, black leather, metal studs and boots. Cowley knew the term punk rocker, but this girl, with her black eyes and pasty white skin was clearly on something. And in the grip of withdrawal, judging by her shaking hands and bitten lips.

“It’s alright, Polly,” Davy said comfortingly. “They ain’t here for you.”

“Oh god,” Marge said and immediately headed for the small pocket of warmth in front of the fireplace holding out her hands and patting at her wet hair. Cowley looked around. The room was large, devoid of furniture and draughty, which indicated a flow through from a possible exit. A doorway led to other rooms, dark and musty. 

“Terrific,” Bodie paused on the bottom step, nostrils quivering from the musty smell. “Out of the fire and into Davy Jones’s locker.” He sneezed violently.

“Check out those other rooms,” Cowley ordered and with another explosive sneeze, Bodie went off to do as bid. Although Cowley was relieved to find dry shelter out of the wet conditions, he was cautious as to the effectiveness of the hidden entrance. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped down here.

“How long you been here?” Doyle queried, stalking around the walls, peering into shadows, obviously of the same mind.

“About three months.” Davy nodded at the girl. “Polly needed a place and so did Gran, it’s the best I could do.”

“Gran?” 

Davy nudged the pile of rags and it moved, rolling over and sitting up, frizzled grey hair sticking up in all directions. A toothless smile greeted him and Davy smiled gently back. “All right, Gran?”

She nodded cheerfully and glanced around. “Visitors? Is it the Jerries again with their bombings? Tsk, I’ll make tea, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, she shuffled over to the fireplace and produced an old tin kettle, shaking it roughly. Water sloshed inside and humming happily, she placed it over the fire.

“Polly’s coming off the stuff,” Davy said in explanation, “She has to stay away from it till the cravings go. But she’ll make it. Gran’s still in the war.” He looked around at Cowley. “You’ll be ok here, no one knows about this place excepting us.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cowley said. He looked at the boy keenly. So far their attempts to move a large party through the streets had met with a resounding failure. One person however, one who knew the area like the back of his hand could possibly have a better chance. “I wonder though, whether you could go and get help?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you’ve proven yourself to be a handy man in a sticky spot. Do you think you could find a phone box and call a number I give you?”

He saw doubt flicker across the face. “That’d take time wouldn’t it? To get them here? You’re outnumbered ‘guv. You need someone close by to help get this lot.”

“Yes, I agree, but I don’t have much choice. Not if we are to keep ahead of them.” He felt in his pocket for a pen, but had no paper. Gesturing to the boy, he took his arm, shoved up the grimy sleeve of his jersey and wrote the phone number on his skin.

“Phone this number and tell them that Mr Cowley requires a squad urgently. And give them this location. Understood?”

“Yeah, I’m not a kid you know.”

Cowley smiled. “Do you need anything else?”

“Money for the phone.”

Bodie returned just in time to hear the last bit of the exchange and Cowley glanced at him. “Have you any change, Bodie?”

His agent looked startled, glanced at the lad with his hand extended and rolled his eyes in resignation. Extending a couple of fingers into the front pocket of his snug cords, he fished out a couple of 10p coins. “Here you go, don’t spend it all at once.”

Davy took the coins and darted away like a shadow, up the stairs. Cowley eyed Bodie, “Well?”

“There are gaps, some partially blocked. If they aren’t easy to see from outside, we might be able to hold off long enough for the _Artful Dodger_ to reach _Fagin_.”

“Aye, you can check them from the outside,” he stood in thought for a moment. “Somehow we’ve been two steps behind since this started. Right from the beginning, these attempts to kill Miss De Souza, all missing their mark as though they were meant to. As though they were carefully choreographed. Somehow they found the safehouse, someone told them where it is.” Cowley looked at Doyle curiously. “Someone knew where you were. Who blew your cover?”

“Dunno,” Doyle shrugged, looked annoyed. “But the bar manager was in on it. Probably overheard that bird that works for Miss De Souza. Silly girl.”

“What? Whatshername?” Bodie clicked his fingers, trying to recall the girl’s name. “Melinda?” 

“Melissa. Yeah, her. Came in and came on to me. Wouldn’t take the hint. Then Marge turned up and it was all go.”

“Blimey,” Bodie gave a low chuckle, “Only you. One too old, one too young. Think she’d have had the sense to stay away.”

“Yeah,” Doyle shifted a bit and kept his voice low. “Sense being the missing word. Didn’t have chance to ask her about the accountant either.”

“What accountant?” Cowley said sharply.

“She said the only time she saw Miss De Souza lose her temper was when she unexpectedly found an accountant in her office. Anyway, that’s when Marge turned up and then Femora and his mates and it all went downhill from there.”

“Mustn’t have liked Marge talking to Doyle either,” Bodie added, “Since he locked them both up while he went down to the wharf, probably waiting for his shipment again.”

“It was definitely Femora?” Cowley asked.

Doyle nodded, a hint of anger in his voice, “Yeah, I recognised his voice.” 

“And we’ve had machine gun crazy thugs on our tail ever since,” Bodie said, “Dogging our every step.”

“Speaking of that, go and find out about the gaps in the walls,” he ordered, mind turning over and over. And Bodie had just given him another puzzle. Why hadn’t Femora killed Doyle and Marge Harper if he suspected them plotting against them. Why just lock them away for the night, particularly Doyle, who was more than capable of breaking out of such a flimsy confinement. He hadn’t shown the same consideration for Miss De Souza, assuming, of course, that he is responsible for the attacks on her. 

“You can’t send my boy out there with that lot wandering around,” Marge objected, “He could get hurt.”

“He’s my man, not your boy, Mrs Harper and it’s his job,” Cowley said calmly, beginning to see Doyle’s problem with the woman. 

“Rest assured, dear lady, your boy seems to thrive on trouble. I’ve suggested more than once that he needs a leash.” Martell glanced innocently at Cowley and added in an aside, “Can’t help her motherly instincts around the younger generation.”

“Well you’d know all about leashes with your sort of perversions, you old Queen,” Marge sneered. 

“Young Queen,” Martell responded haughtily.

“Still won’t get you anywhere near that lout,” she sniffed dismissively. “No matter what age you pretend to be.”

Cowley saw that Doyle and Bodie had beat a hasty retreat, leaving him alone with Martell and Marge sniping at each other like an old married couple. He shut out their bickering and gave some thought to their present dilemma. Somehow they were being tracked, against all odds. He had a leak and it was closer than he’d realised. He watched the girl, Polly, rocking and whimpering in withdrawal and thought of Matty Groves. This whole thing had started with the overdose of Matty Groves. 

***

CHAPTER 12

He’d tracked them well, he’d thought, despite his injury, blood running freely from his right arm. It made gripping his gun much harder, the butt slippery with it, but he’d resolutely tightened his fingers, teeth clenched against the pain. They were here, somewhere, but he’d lost sight of them not surprising really, given who they were. No matter, he could wait it out. It’s what he did. The crane base, rusted and pitted, drew his attention, it’s framework towering into the sky, wet and shiny in the rain. Enough shadows for what he wanted, enough cover and a clear view of the area. They were here somewhere. Huddled over he scuttled across to the base and leaned against one of its huge legs. Patting his pocket, he sighed, yearning, craving, but resisting. Not long hopefully, he needed some medical attention. Taking a deep breath, he looked east. The sky was just barely beginning to lighten. Then his head whipped around as a dark grey car entered the clearing. He took another breath and straightened up, preparing himself.

***

Cowley looked up quickly as footsteps announced the return of his two operatives. And they weren’t alone. A man almost tumbled down the stairs, pushed non too gently by Bodie. He staggered into the middle of the room and straightened up, glaring around at them all. 

“Well,” Cowley said softly, “Andy Taylor, Special Branch.” He glanced up at Bodie for explanation. 

“Found him skulking around one of the gaps at the south end,” Bodie clarified in satisfaction.

Doyle remained on the stairs, ready to bolt back up at the first hint of trouble. “Although he’s not saying why.”

“And Doyle and I have had enough of being set up,” Bodie said savagely.

“What are you doing here?” Cowley asked, moving closer. He knew Taylor wasn’t armed, Bodie would have taken care of that and he could see the extra weapon in his agent’s left hand. 

“What were you doing in that boat last night?” Bodie shot at him. “Doing a pick up, were you? Collecting a drug shipment for Tony Femora?”

“Why are you such great mates with Vinnie Carter?” Doyle added from the staircase. 

“Did Femora put you up to it?” Bodie’s aggression was palpable and he took a threatening step towards the detective. “Did you arrange for Carter to snuff Nigel Groves?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Taylor said, clenching and unclenching his fists. “You boys think you’re so above us. Top of the Tree. We’re supposed to be on the same side, only you don’t like working with the likes of us, do you?”

“We don’t work with corrupt departments.” Bodie growled, low voiced and menacingly. “Nothing worse than a bent cop.”

That hit a nerve, Taylor turned to face his tormentor. “You haven’t a clue, you pumped up piece of shit. What would you know about any of that?”

Cowley surveyed him. Doyle and Bodie’s aggressive tactics had put him on edge, that was clear, but unless he was a very good actor, he hadn’t given anything away. What was he doing here? How did he know they were here? 

Marge had been listening avidly, “Vinnie Carter? That murderer? If he’s in with Vinnie he’s as bent as a…” she glanced sideways at Martell, “well, as a nine bob note.” 

Martell, standing by the doorway to the outer rooms, flicked annoyed eyes at her and said pleasantly, “Shut your face.” 

Cowley glanced towards the fire where Polly rocked and whimpered and Gran hummed tunelessly to herself while waiting for the kettle to boil, seemingly oblivious to the tension behind her. Natasha De Souza stood silently near them, hands on the crucifix under her blouse. Cowley watched her for a moment, she was giving nothing away, just gazing at them all with her usual serene expression, still attractive despite her wet hair and filthy clothes. A woman who knew how to project herself to her advantage. He looked back at Taylor, a man approaching middle age, a man past his prime with thinning hair and an expanding belly. A man that, nevertheless, sported a gold wedding band on the fourth finger of his left hand. 

Time. Time was what he needed to unravel this tangled puzzle and time was something he didn’t have. 

“Where is your partner?” Cowley said softly to Taylor, and was rewarded with a quick look of panic. 

“We’ve got company,” Doyle, half way up the stairs, broke the tension and Bodie immediately spun around. 

Beckoning to Martell, he gave him Taylor’s revolver. “Keep an eye on him, and Marty? Don’t turn your back for a minute.”

Martell, looking thoroughly put out, took the gun, checked the chamber and trained it on the detective.

***

Spanish voices were calling out across the old car park and shadows were visible in the growing dawn. Cowley reached the top of the stairs to find Doyle crouched on one side of the rubble, Bodie on the other, both of them checking their remaining ammunition. The morning was bright enough now to see his men, wet and cold, clothes plastered to bodies that, despite the long night, were primed for action. 

Bodie glanced up at him. “They’ve tracked us.” 

“Again,” Doyle added in disgust, blowing absently at long, rain soaked locks that dangled into his eyes. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and licked moisture from his lips before peering over his cover of crumbling bricks. “No way out through here.”

“How many?” Cowley panted slightly, leg aching. 

“Too many,” Bodie concentrated on loading his weapon. “You know, I think we have a leak.”

“Yeah. A big one,” Doyle agreed. “Someone is telling them where we are.” 

“And it can’t be Marge, can it?” Bodie said to Cowley, “Since she wouldn’t let a single curl on his untidy head be harmed...”

“Couldn’t be Marty either,” Doyle, always quick on the uptake, responded scathingly, “Since he hasn’t managed to get into your…”

“So there’s only one person left, isn’t there?” Bodie quickly cut off whatever Doyle had been about to say.

Cowley frowned, unsurprised they had come to the same conclusions as himself, they wouldn’t be in CI5 if they weren’t sharp enough. “The last thing we need is to be trapped in here. See what you can do to hold them off until the lad gets back with reinforcements.”

The sound of a single shot echoed across the deserted yard and, as though it was a pre arranged signal, there were a sudden volley of shots, all pinging off the bricks and mortar around them. Bodie crouched low, head down, hair slowly filling with dust and chips of cement, smearing across his wet face. Doyle had his back to a section of wall, resting on his heels, his Walther up by his shoulder, ready. Cowley approved their tactics. Their ammunition was low, no point in wasting it. He remained in the stairwell, listening as the gunfire slowed down, their opponents gradually realising there was no return fire. The rain continued to fall heavily, a hindrance they could do without. Doyle glanced at Bodie and Bodie nodded once. Then they were up, leaning over their respective covers, firing methodically and accurately. Cowley couldn’t see a thing, not crouched where he was but knew that despite any inflicted casualties, they were still outnumbered. Doyle spun around, dropped down, shoved in his last clip and was up again.

“Wait a minute,” he yelled suddenly, “What the hell is he doing here?”

Cowley moved up enough to see where his agent was looking. Henshaw, Henshaw with his baby face and school boy hair was crouched quite close to them, behind a stack of old oil drums. His position was highly vulnerable. How he had got there, how he hadn’t been hit in crossing the open expanse, Cowley never knew, but he somehow had and was now huddled into a small, terrified ball. 

Doyle had a point, what was he doing here? The logical conclusion was that he had arrived with his partner, was part of whatever Taylor was up to, although he couldn’t discount the hope that young Davy had got through. Cowley had given him the number for CI5, however the switchboard could have put out a general alert, despite there being no sirens, no police cars, well none that he could see. And it was too quick to be a response to a general alert anyway. Not unless they just happened to be in the area already. Both Henshaw and Taylor. In this area specifically? If he were a betting man, he would say it wasn’t a co-incidence at all.

Bodie was still firing, picking his targets carefully. He glanced sideways at Henshaw, huddled behind the drums, gun in hand, making no move to use it. 

“What are you waiting for?” Bodie roared. “An invitation?”

But Henshaw merely looked scared out of his wits and stayed put. Bodie gave a grunt of disgust. Cowley was unsure how many men were firing at them, he certainly knew his lads wouldn’t be able to keep track of them all and they could have used the young detectives help.

“I’m out,” Doyle declared, dropping back behind his protection. He shoved the now useless pistol into his waistband and looked grimly across at Bodie. Bodie continued methodically squeezing his trigger.

Cowley manoeuvred slightly to a better position, in order to keep an eye on Henshaw and turned his attention back to the siege. There seemed to be more activity now, other men appearing and the gunfire increased, although not as many bullets were impacting around them. The newcomers seemed uninterested in them, their attention solely on the original gunmen. Some even seemed to be fighting hand to hand. In the confusing pale light of dawn, it almost looked like there were two opposing forces in and around the perimeter, now fighting each other. That couldn’t be right, surely?

Bodie stopped firing, looked at them both, holding up his Hi Power. Cowley’s mouth thinned in a grim line. Also out of ammunition. 

“Get them out of the cellar, through one of those gaps you mentioned, Bodie,” he said briskly. “We can’t wait any longer for young Jones.”

Abruptly the gunfire ceased. The docklands were shockingly silent after the din. Cowley looked at his men. Doyle was frowning, head tilted as though trying to hear the reason. Bodie’s lips were thinned in a grim line. 

“Mr Cowley?” A voice called out. Cowley tilted his head, startled. The silence continued, before the voice called again. “Mr Cowley.”

“A trap?” Doyle guessed, sliding his gaze to his boss. Cowley agreed, but they were at a stalemate. Out of ammunition, out of options. If he could stall them, it would allow his men to find a way out to safety. He stood cautiously, mindful of his cover, keeping himself partially shielded. 

“I’m Cowley,” he announced, trying to locate the speaker.

A single shot rang out, echoing through the empty buildings. 

Cowley jerked and Doyle was there, pulling him back down into cover, but he’d seen Henshaw, down on his knees, clutching his shoulder. Shot. At some point during the gunfight the Detective had foolishly moved out into the open, away from his shelter and closer to them. His gun arm was dangling uselessly, his weapon on the ground by his feet. From the angle, Cowley knew the bullet hadn’t been meant for him, it was all wrong. He looked past Henshaw, following the only possible trajectory and saw the gunman, a shadowy figure in the shelter of the rusted crane base. The man slowly lowered his weapon and slumped against the metal leg of the support pylon, sliding down to a sitting position to tilt his head back against the wet metal. 

Bodie and Doyle were risking exposure, racing across dirty puddles to retrieve Henshaw, who’d at least had the presence of mind to retrieve his weapon, dragging him to his feet and supporting him in a mad dash back to cover, but Cowley was still watching the gunman in the shadows of the old crane, something about him was familiar. The sky was murky, more rain falling, the wind incessant. He watched, with an almost detached air, as the gunman fumbled at his jacket, extracted something long and cylindrical. He pushed it between his teeth, went back to his jacket and next minute a flame flared, lighting up his face. It was drawn and in pain, but the man inhaled strongly and dropped his head back in satisfaction. 

Cowley froze, recognising Anson immediately. A small part of him not preoccupied with the current drama was relieved to find his missing agent alive and seemingly in one piece. Then his gaze moved to the wounded Henshaw, being helped to safety by his men. Anson had shot Henshaw, clear as day. Coldly and deliberately. No accident, his men were too well trained for that. But why? He glanced back at Anson, unable to help him for the moment, but reassured by the steady puffs of the cigar.

Instead he followed his men as they helped Henshaw down into the cellar. Taylor went still as they brought the wounded man in, trembling slightly and in shock from his wound. 

“Why didn’t you listen to me and stay out of this,” Taylor finally said, voice low and harsh. 

Henshaw darted eyes all around, saw Natasha and straightened up. “I couldn’t let you go down Andy, I had to try and stop you.”

Taylor’s eyes went wide and anger abruptly suffused his face red. “What are you talking about?”

“The boat, they know about you using the boat. I had to follow you, try and stop you.”

“Stop me?” Taylor roared suddenly. He turned to Cowley outraged. “You think it was me?”

“The clues sort of fit,” Bodie drawled sarcastically. “All along we’ve been followed.”

Doyle had his eyes on Natasha De Souza and there was nothing charming in his expression. “Yeah. Like we were being tracked.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Marge cut in, looking between them. “Are you suggesting one of us is telling them where we are?”

“Yes, Mrs Harper,” Cowley said, “That’s exactly what’s has happened.”

“Bodie dear chap, they’ve been trying to kill us.” Martell said, looking faintly alarmed. “All of us.” 

“Not all of us,” Cowley said softly. “No, not all of us.” 

Doyle had already moved across and pulled Natasha to her feet. Cowley watched, amused, as she resisted, but Doyle was far stronger than he looked and held her arm easily.

“Why did you leave the safehouse, Miss De Souza? There were armed men in the vicinity.” Cowley asked, although he already knew the answer. He looked her over. She didn’t look calm any more, she didn’t look composed. She merely looked superiorly haughty.

“I was frightened,” she snarled, struggling against Doyle’s grip. “I panicked.”

“Och, I don’t think so. I think you knew when that grenade was going to be thrown in. You knew when they were going to attack. You knew the bomb was placed in your car and when it would go off. You knew because you were instructing them.”

“How?” Marge asked, fascinated. “She’s been with us the whole time.”

“Yes.” Bodie looked at her coldly. “She has.”

Doyle reached out with his right hand and grasped the edges of the woman’s crisp white shirt. Not bothering with the buttons he gave a quick tug. Natasha gave a squawk of protest and tried to twist away, but Bodie was there, grasping her other arm. The buttons ripped and her bra was exposed, white, lacy, very feminine.

Bodie smirked. “There you go, sir. I’d say a 34A cup, with slightly more wire than is necessary.”

He turned her around and Cowley saw the microphone clipped to the inside of her bra, the small bug adhered beside it. Marge gasped, holding her hand to her mouth.

With deft fingers, Doyle reached out and removed the bug, dropping it to the ground and stomping on it. “It’s been there all along.” 

“Let go of me,” she twisted out of their grasp and jerked her blouse back together, but without the buttons there was no way to keep it closed. Bodie smirked. 

“I wouldn’t bother,” he said silkily. “A 34A isn’t worth the modesty.”

She hissed at him and backed away. “That was for my own safety. Your department was incompetent Mr Cowley, I had to take secondary measures. Special Branch kindly agreed to track my movements in the event you failed your duty.”

“What’s going on?” Taylor barked and Martell lifted the gun.

“Be quiet, there’s a good chap,” he murmured, but Taylor was outraged.

“Scott, what in god’s name have you got yourself into?”

“Mr Cowley,” Scott Henshaw, turned to Cowley, “I’m really sorry, but it has to be stopped.”

Cowley wasn’t surprised to find Henshaw’s gun trained on him. Wasn’t surprised at all. What did surprise him, and everyone else in the room was a shrill whistle, punctuating the air with a splutter before catching on and growing in volume. Gran hummed happily and quickly removed the kettle from the flames.

“There we go gents,” she said, beaming as she turned around and stopped abruptly at the sight of the guns. The smile abruptly disappeared. “Here,” she said and suddenly her eyes were narrowed at Martell. “What’s all this, then? Jerries? Bleedin’ Jerries! Here?” 

And before anyone could stop her, she’d thrown the contents of the kettle at Martell and launched herself at him, screaming. Martell shrieked with pain and dropped the gun. Bodie hurriedly reached for the infuriated old woman while Doyle bolted for Henshaw but Taylor, faster than anyone would give him credit went for his own weapon, lying abandoned on the floor. Andy Taylor turned in one swift motion, pivoting quite gracefully for a man of his size and stature. And shot his partner 

“That’s it, that’s it,” the old woman crowed, cackling with glee, “You teach those Jerries how the British fight a war.”

Henshaw’s finger loosened on the trigger and his eyes glazed. He slumped to the floor, his boyishly dark hair falling over his forehead. Cowley hadn’t moved, hadn’t needed to. He looked straight at Andy Taylor who stood, resigned but stony. The small blue eyes lifted and looked back at Cowley, before he lowered his arm, his gun neatly removed by Bodie who immediately retrained it on him. 

“I couldn’t let it happen,” Taylor said in a low voice. “Not again. We’re a good department, the best. I couldn’t let it go through all of that again, all that crap Drury put us through. I tried to stop him.”

“Not hard enough, it seems,” a new voice interrupted. Everyone looked up. The man on the stairs held his own weapon competently and a small excited figure danced beside him with glee.

“Davy Jones,” Bodie groaned. “And he’s brought Tony Femora? That’s his idea of help? I’ll kill him.”

Tony Femora looked at him coldly. “I’ve just saved your arse, a man with manners might be grateful for that.”

Davy quickly ran over, pride at his accomplishment. “I’ve brought Mr Femora, Mr Cowley. He knows everything, fixes everything too.”

“So does _Bill Sykes_ ,” Bodie muttered, quickly aiming Taylor’s weapon at the new threat. 

“That won’t be necessary, Bodie,” Cowley told him calmly.

“I see your men do not always stay where they are put, Mr Cowley,” Femora said, glancing at Doyle cautiously.

“Oh? Did you put my man somewhere?” Cowley answered, voice hardening. “Where did you put him, then?”

“Somewhere out of harm’s way.” Femora elaborated. “And as you can see, he’s unharmed.”

“And why would you do that?” Cowley asked, voice still like steel. 

“Because none of you are to be trusted.” Femora shouted. “I was fixing the problem, I didn’t need CI5 sniffing round.”

“Fixing Natasha De Souza, you mean?” Bodie taunted. 

“If it was in my power, yes.” Femora shot back. 

Cowley grew impatient. “Stop playing games, man, or are you going to take the blame for everything all over again? I know you were set up in ‘’72 It was your word against a certain police officer at the time. The court took his word and Fabrizio Luigi was found guilty of murder, and you guilty for perverting the course of justice.” He walked over and stared at the man. “The policeman did it, didn’t he? Killed that girl and framed Luigi.”

“According to the courts, he didn’t,” Femora stated coldly. “How do you know this?”

“I have my ways,” Cowley said sternly. “But becoming a vigilante? Coercing the residents of the docklands to do your bidding? That might be the way in Sicily, but we do things differently in this country.”

“Sicily?” Doyle said incredulously. “You mean he’s got a mini mafia set up? That’s why he’s got all these thugs helping him? A favour for a favour?”

“Told you so,” Marge crowed to the room at large and then shot a narrowed eyed look at Femora still standing by the stairs. “It doesn’t excuse locking me up though, we’ll have words over that one.”

“But what about his midnight jaunts down to the river. The drugs?” Bodie put in incredulously. “Locking Doyle up?”

“Och he was trying to stop it, Bodie. Unfortunately he found out that Doyle was my man and he didn’t trust us, with good reason.” He glanced at the dead Henshaw. “He removed Doyle so he could stop the drop off without interference. But he had the same problem as us, couldn’t find who was doing it, and where they were hiding the goods. For a while we thought it was Taylor, but that wasn’t the case, was it Taylor?”

Andy Taylor looked bone weary. “I suspected Henshaw was going bad. I tried to stop him. He wouldn’t listen. He was making contact with real nasty pieces of work in his off time, like Vinnie Carter. He’d started asking me about boats. He’d never been interested before. I’ve been sailing all my life, grew up with them. He knew I’d go out to wind down after jobs. I knew he was into something bad, but I couldn’t find out what.”

“Which leaves just one thing,” Cowley finally turned to Natasha De Souza, who was holding her blouse together while staring at them all contemptuously. “Where exactly do you stash the drugs, Miss De Souza? How do you smuggle them through London under the very noses of the existing drug barons?”

“This is the most absurd fabrication I have ever heard,” she said coldly, “You have no proof of any of this. None at all. I am an upstanding citizen of this country. This is all conjecture and I will sue your department and bury you so deep, you will be lucky to get a cleaning job, afterwards.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Martell murmured to no one in particular. 

But Cowley had forgotten Doyle, forgotten his operative’s strong dislike of drugs. Doyle was across the room in a flash, grasping the woman by the arm, whipping her around to face the pathetic trembling figure of Polly, who had her fist in her mouth, eyes wild at the proceedings.

“Look!” he snarled, his unpredictable temper detonating with a swiftness that had the women flinching. “Look at her. This is what you do, what you create. _Look at her!_ ” He gave her a shake, furious. “What was it? The money? Trying to show daddy you are worth something? Poor little rich girl? Nigel Groves found out, didn’t he, he was in your office and saw something. You had him killed for it.”

Cowley glanced at Bodie who was watching his partner closely, but making no move to interfere. Bodie knew how to handle Doyle, knew what Doyle was capable of when his temper got the better of him. But he just watched, face impenetrable, allowing his partner his fury. Cowley relaxed slightly, relying on Bodie’s judgement. 

Natasha De Souza raised fingers like claws, finally breaking her ice cold resolve. “Let go of me,” she spat, “I am trying to help the people of this area. Help them against people like him. He is going to take their homes, they’ll have nowhere to live. You think a couple of junked up kids are worth more than a whole community? You are going to believe him? A petty criminal who thinks he’s some sort of Godfather? You just try and pin this on me, you will see what you are up against.” 

Femora’s face twisted into an angry snarl. “Take their homes? Who do you think is going to live in the homes I build? What community do you think this junked up child belongs to? I have already drawn up the contracts to ensure that the existing community is housed in the new development. I look after my people, I help them. It’s people like you, who line their own pockets under the guise of helping others. It is people like you, who cause such misery.”

“It was you, who tried to talk to Nigel Groves, outside my office,” Cowley said astutely, watching as the little Italian calmed down. “That day he disappeared?”

“He’d been poking around the docks, asking questions,” Femora said. “I wanted to help him. Tried. But he didn’t trust me.”

 

*** 

CHAPTER 13

“She lined herself up for the perfect position. A desk in the foreign office, a seat in Tower Hamlet near the docks, the Minister wrapped around her little finger. She’d bought off a couple of the flying squad and it was all going nicely to plan, until Nigel Groves turned up at her office by accident and found some evidence.” Doyle paced around Cowley’s office with his usual restless energy. 

“And she knew he was going to go to the authorities.” Bodie put in. Loathe to waste energy on anything as useless as pacing, he was standing at ease in front of the desk. “And went to her mate in the flying squad.”

“Who engaged Vinnie Carter, although there’s no proof of that,” Doyle ended. “But Groves had already managed to see you, sir. So she had another problem. How to stop you investigating his disappearance.”

“So with the help of the Minister, she made sure you had no time for Groves,” Bodie said with reluctant admiration, “and arranged for your demise at the same time. The grenade would have done it, she’d already left the safehouse, got herself to safety. You have to hand it to her,” he smirked suddenly, “You would have died a hero, sir.”

Cowley glared at him. “And she would have carried on with her drug smuggling, nobody the wiser.”

“But everything she has said in her defence is plausible,” Doyle remarked, running his fingers through his wayward curls. “And thanks to Taylor killing Henshaw, she’s going to get away with it.” 

“We need that proof, the proof Groves brought to show me.” Cowley mused, thinking back to that day so long ago. What had happened to it? Was it buried, along with Nigel Groves, in a shallow grave somewhere, never to be found? He wandered over to the window, seeing the street below, the pedestrian crossing where Groves had leaned away from Femora in the grey car. Rain splattered the pavement, wind causing umbrella’s to turn inside out. Back on that day in March it had been cold and dry, Groves had his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His gaze switched to the steps, where he had seen the man leaving, clutching his briefcase and suddenly frowned. The briefcase. He’d had it at the steps, but didn’t at the lights. That’s it! Bless that poor desperate man, he’d hidden it somewhere, perhaps knowing he was being hunted. Gesturing sharply to his two agents to follow him, he made for the door. 

“That afternoon,” he said, limping along as fast as he could go, “When Groves left my office, he stopped on the steps outside and something about him caught your attention Doyle. You stopped as well. What was it?”

Doyle blinked, taken aback by the question. “Er…” he shrugged, thought for a minute, long legged stride easily keeping up with Cowley’s gait. “Well, he looked distraught. He’d been hovering by the wall. His hands were bleeding. I asked him if he was all right. He didn’t answer me, just walked off down the street.”

“Did he have his briefcase with him?” 

Doyle thought for a minute, glanced at Bodie for confirmation. “No, I didn’t see one.”

The glass doors came up and Cowley pushed at them with some force. The wind and rain swept around his legs, blowing Doyle’s curls into a tangle. Well more of a tangle than they usually were. Bodie stood braced against it, seemingly impervious to its effects. The brick wall by the door was wet with rain. Cowley gazed at it and then at the surrounding concrete, then back at the wall. There hadn’t been enough time for Groves to move any further away. It had to be here somewhere. He went along it, feeling with hands and fingers, looking for something, anything. It was at the end, where the wall stuck out a bit more into the wind that he found the mortar crumbling. At some point a whole section had been replaced. 

Low down the bricks were loose, a repair job done badly, the segments not matching up in their spacing. The crevice was tight, the leather case about the same colour as the bricks, effectively hiding it. He jammed his fingers into the edges, trying to grip the leather. The jagged edges of the roughly finished bricks tore at his flesh. How Groves had managed to insert it… Then Bodie was there, knife in his hand, he gouged out bits of cement, caught the tip of the leather and dragged just enough for them to get a grip on it, haul it out. Cowley unzipped the bag, reached his hand inside, pulled out papers, damp and musty from their internment.

“Who’d have thought,” Bodie mused behind him, “Such sneaky tactics from an accountant.”

“Then maybe you should look at your tax return a bit more closely, Bodie,” Cowley said crisply. “You might be surprised.”

 

***

 

The papers were spread out, times, dates, tides. This, Cowley had already suspected. There were long lists of figures as well, most notably a large sum of money paid to Scott Henshaw. But the most interesting evidence was the map. It showed the tunnels, rough sketches, but the fact that they ran from the Dockland Basins all the way into Camden was the answer to how the drugs were getting past the street dealers. Tunnels long forgotten by everyone it seemed, despite the underground and the sewerage that would have been put in long after their construction. Her mother had lived in the area, Cowley remembered Doyle’s report, Elizabeth Collins had lost her home to German bombers during the war, her mother and brother killed in a raid. Possibly she had passed the story to her only daughter and Natasha De Souza had seen a way to escape her poverty, aided and abetted by her Columbian father. And now… now he had the proof. But also some loose ends to tie up. 

There was nothing on the whereabouts of Nigel Groves, dead or alive and still no concrete proof that Vinnie Carter had been hired to kill him, although it was highly likely. Shirley Groves had been saddened but philosophical. As though she had always known her husband’s vendetta would come to such an end. Cowley wondered at her strength, to lose the only two men in her life and yet still carry on, getting up each day, attending to day to day tasks. A veteran of war, he had seen it before of course, but it never ceased to amaze him. 

A new photo was on her mantelpiece, the day Cowley had gone to see her. Nigel Groves’s unassuming face was next to his son, a younger Nigel, a more carefree Nigel. Shirley had run a loving hand down the frame. “He would think it worth it, you know, Mr Cowley,” she’d blinked back tears and looked up at him. “That he died, helping Matty. He couldn’t live you see, he couldn’t live without somehow atoning for it. That we sent him to that university. Nigel was killing himself with guilt. This way he made a difference.” She straightened the frame and tilted it slightly, so it appeared he was looking at his son, mouth smiling slightly. 

Cowley wasn’t so sure. The drug trade was a growing tide and Natasha de Souza a small drop in the ocean. But with her arrest, her connections, including the South American ones were cut. Oh someone else will take it up, a quick way to get rich, ride the wave of other people’s misery, but he could only do so much. 

The Minister had abruptly retired, ostensibly due to ill health, his illicit involvement with a criminal probably less of a scandal than the fact that he’d used his position to accelerate her career. Vinnie Carter had disappeared, as was his habit whenever he brushed the law a bit too closely. That would have to wait. But for now, he exited his car in front of the Lime Tree Inn, trying to control his umbrella in the ongoing weather. Two short steps led to heavy glass doors and he pushed them open to be blasted with a particularly mournful tune coming from the jukebox. It wasn’t overly crowded a few people chatting in a corner, a couple of men by the dartboard, an old bloke snoring into his drink. The bartender, looking quite ill, was at the far end of the counter, avoiding Doyle, who sat with Bodie and… Cowley frowned… young Davy Jones.

Cowley looked at them all sternly but addressed himself to young Jones. “Aren’t you too young to be in here?”

“Not me.” Davy said smartly, grinning at him. “Older than I look, I am.”

“Aye, well I’m always on the look out for a young man with potential. What say you come and see me in a year or two and we’ll discuss it?”

“Hmmm,” Davy gave him a sly look. “That’s the third offer this week. I might just have to do some comparisons, see what’s in me best interests, like.”

Cowley looked at Doyle frowning. Doyle shrugged, “Marge,” he said by way of explanation. 

And a clearing of the throat from Bodie, “And, er, Marty, sir.”

Aghast, Cowley glanced down at the lad, he couldn’t honestly be considering...

“Of course, I’m willing to negotiate.” Davy said graciously. “After I get my monetary compensation, plus an added percentage for getting you help, which weren’t in the original deal.”

“I think you might want to reconsider this one, sir,” Bodie leaned in to whisper.

“Otherwise you might need a budget increase,” Doyle added. “Drink, sir?”

“Aye a wee dram,” Cowley sat down, grateful to be out of the weather. 

The juke box in the corner finished the mournful tune and someone shouted to put something more lively on. Cowley paid it no mind until the tune penetrated. 

_Come home with me, little Matty Groves  
Come home with me tonight,_

Doyle returned with the dram and sat down with a fresh pint for himself.

_Come home with me little Matty Groves and sleep with me till light._

Cowley felt a fleeting sadness for the Groves family, brought to mind by the lyrics. Although the tune itself was anything but sad. An old folk song, it had been popular once, although he hadn’t heard it since, well since…he broke into a broad grin. 

“Ah, this song brings back memories of when I was much younger.” He glanced at his agents, “You two wouldn’t know it, likely you were both still in short shorts when it was popular,” he tossed the whisky back, feeling it burn pleasantly in his throat. “There was this wee lassie, did the club circuits, singing folk songs. Och, she was a looker, right enough, beautiful legs. She wore a mini skirt and had big dark eyes...”

He broke off as Doyle choked in his pint and looked at Bodie. Who was wearing a perfectly indescribable expression.

“Well I wasn’t born old, laddie,” he said peevishly.

 

***

_A story is only as good as a beta, and I have been very fortunate in all my beta’s over various stories, who have sacrificed their time and effort to find all the mistakes and problems that I make while writing such long fic. It’s exhausting for me, I can only imagine how exhausting it is for them. This fic was particularly difficult, it was a complex plot and due to a very busy real life, my time was very limited, not only to write, but also to edit it. Good advice I received when I first started writing, was to find a good beta, one that you are happy to take criticism from, because it’s not an easy job for them. But I’ve also discovered, that the reverse is just as true. So for all of you that really like a story, spare a thought for the beta’s, without whom you wouldn’t enjoy the story half as much, believe me._

_To pmgms and CI5mates, my main beta’s. I could never write, never mind post, a story without you both. Thank you._

 

Jaicen5  
March 2015

 

***


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